Wilfred Owen

(1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)

Wilfred Owen Poems

1. Roundel 11/5/2015
2. A Palinode 10/31/2015
3. On My Songs 4/1/2010
4. Maundy Thursday 4/1/2010
5. Shadwell Stair 4/1/2010
6. My Shy Hand 4/1/2010
7. Sonnet To My Friend - With An Identity Disc 4/1/2010
8. The Calls [unfinished] 1/1/2004
9. Sonnet: On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action 4/1/2010
10. Song Of Songs 4/1/2010
11. O World Of Many Worlds 4/1/2010
12. Antaeus: [a Fragment] 4/1/2010
13. Preface 1/3/2003
14. Spells And Incantations 1/3/2003
15. On Seeing A Piece Of Our Artillery Brought Into Action 1/3/2003
16. Storm 4/1/2010
17. The Calls 1/3/2003
18. On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action 12/31/2002
19. The Unreturning 4/1/2010
20. Music 1/3/2003
21. Uriconium: An Ode 1/3/2003
22. Training 1/3/2003
23. Red Lips Are Not So Red 1/1/2004
24. Six O'Clock In Princes Street 1/3/2003
25. The Parable Of The Young Man And The Old 1/3/2003
26. Has Your Soul Sipped? 1/3/2003
27. Hospital Barge At Cerisy 1/1/2004
28. The Roads Also 1/3/2003
29. Hospital Barge 1/3/2003
30. Beauty: [notes For An Unfinished Poem] 1/1/2004
31. I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson 1/3/2003
32. Smile, Smile, Smile 12/31/2002
33. The Kind Ghosts 1/3/2003
34. The Show 12/31/2002
35. Winter Song 1/3/2003
36. Miners 1/3/2003
37. Le Christianisme 1/3/2003
38. Wild With All Regrets 12/31/2002
39. The Chances 12/31/2002
40. The End 12/31/2002
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

Inspection

'You! What d'you mean by this?' I rapped.
'You dare come on parade like this?'
'Please, sir, it's-' ''Old yer mouth,' the sergeant snapped.
'I takes 'is name, sir?'-'Please, and then dismiss.'

Some days 'confined to camp' he got,
For being 'dirty on parade'.
He told me, afterwards, the damnèd spot
Was blood, his own. 'Well, blood is dirt,' I said.

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