Wilfred Owen

(1893-1918 / Shropshire / England)

Wilfred Owen Poems

1. A Palinode 10/31/2015
2. Roundel 11/5/2015
3. Maundy Thursday 4/1/2010
4. Antaeus: [a Fragment] 4/1/2010
5. My Shy Hand 4/1/2010
6. The Calls [unfinished] 1/1/2004
7. Shadwell Stair 4/1/2010
8. Song Of Songs 4/1/2010
9. On My Songs 4/1/2010
10. Sonnet: On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action 4/1/2010
11. Sonnet To My Friend - With An Identity Disc 4/1/2010
12. O World Of Many Worlds 4/1/2010
13. Storm 4/1/2010
14. The Calls 1/3/2003
15. Preface 1/3/2003
16. Uriconium: An Ode 1/3/2003
17. Spells And Incantations 1/3/2003
18. Schoolmistress 1/3/2003
19. On Seeing A Piece Of Our Artillery Brought Into Action 1/3/2003
20. The Unreturning 4/1/2010
21. Hospital Barge At Cerisy 1/1/2004
22. Six O'Clock In Princes Street 1/3/2003
23. Music 1/3/2003
24. Training 1/3/2003
25. Red Lips Are Not So Red 1/1/2004
26. On Seeing A Piece Of Our Heavy Artillery Brought Into Action 12/31/2002
27. Beauty: [notes For An Unfinished Poem] 1/1/2004
28. Has Your Soul Sipped? 1/3/2003
29. The Parable Of The Young Man And The Old 1/3/2003
30. A Terre (Being The Philosophy Of Many Soldiers) 1/3/2003
31. Le Christianisme 1/3/2003
32. The Roads Also 1/3/2003
33. Hospital Barge 1/3/2003
34. With An Identity Disc 1/3/2003
35. I Saw His Round Mouth's Crimson 1/3/2003
36. The Chances 12/31/2002
37. Smile, Smile, Smile 12/31/2002
38. Happiness 1/3/2003
39. From My Diary, July 1914 4/1/2010
40. The Kind Ghosts 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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