Wilfred Owen

(1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)

Wilfred Owen Poems

1. Maundy Thursday 4/1/2010
2. Sonnet: On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action 4/1/2010
3. Shadwell Stair 4/1/2010
4. Song Of Songs 4/1/2010
5. The Calls [unfinished] 1/1/2004
6. My Shy Hand 4/1/2010
7. On My Songs 4/1/2010
8. Sonnet To My Friend - With An Identity Disc 4/1/2010
9. O World Of Many Worlds 4/1/2010
10. Antaeus: [a Fragment] 4/1/2010
11. The Calls 1/3/2003
12. Preface 1/3/2003
13. Spells And Incantations 1/3/2003
14. Storm 4/1/2010
15. The Unreturning 4/1/2010
16. Red Lips Are Not So Red 1/1/2004
17. On Seeing A Piece Of Our Artillery Brought Into Action 1/3/2003
18. Hospital Barge At Cerisy 1/1/2004
19. On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action 12/31/2002
20. Le Christianisme 1/3/2003
21. Schoolmistress 1/3/2003
22. The Roads Also 1/3/2003
23. I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson 1/3/2003
24. The Kind Ghosts 1/3/2003
25. Six O'Clock In Princes Street 1/3/2003
26. Uriconium: An Ode 1/3/2003
27. Hospital Barge 1/3/2003
28. From My Diary, July 1914 4/1/2010
29. The Parable Of The Young Man And The Old 1/3/2003
30. The Chances 12/31/2002
31. Training 1/3/2003
32. Beauty: [notes For An Unfinished Poem] 1/1/2004
33. Happiness 1/3/2003
34. Music 1/3/2003
35. The End 12/31/2002
36. A Terre (Being The Philosophy Of Many Soldiers) 1/3/2003
37. The Show 12/31/2002
38. Winter Song 1/3/2003
39. With An Identity Disc 1/3/2003
40. As Bronze May Be Much Beautified 1/3/2003
Best Poem of Wilfred Owen

Dulce Et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.- ...

Read the full of Dulce Et Decorum Est


This book is not about heroes. English Poetry is not yet fit to speak
of them. Nor is it about deeds or lands, nor anything about glory, honour,
dominion or power,
except War.
Above all, this book is not concerned with Poetry.
The subject of it is War, and the pity of War.
The Poetry is in the pity.
Yet these elegies are not to this generation,
This is in no sense consolatory.

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