Wilfred Owen

Wilfred Owen

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Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, MC (18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918) was an English poet and soldier. He was one of the leading poets of the First World War. His war poetry on the horrors of trenches and gas warfare was much influenced by his mentor Siegfried Sassoon.
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What d'you mean by this
' I rapped
'You dare come on parade like this
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Arms And The Boy

Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
Blue with all malice, like a madman's flash;
And thinly drawn with famishing for flesh
Lend him to stroke these blind, blunt bullet-heads Whi...
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The End

After the blast of lightning from the east,
The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne,
After the drums of time have rolled and
And from the bronze west long retreat is blown,
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Greater Love

Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English dead
Kindness of wooed and wooer Seems shame to their love pure
O Love, your eyes lose lure When I behold eyes blinded in my stead
Your slender attitude Trembles no...
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There was a whispering in my hearth,
A sigh of the coal
Grown wistful of a former
It might recall
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I know The Music unfinished

All sounds have been as music to my listening:
Pacific lamentations of slow bells,
The crunch of boots on blue snow rosy-glistening,
Shuffle of autumn leaves; and all farewells:
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Apologia Pro Poemate Meo

I, too, saw God through mud— The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled
War brought more glory to their eyes than blood,
And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child
Merry it was to laugh there— Where death becomes a...
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Song Of Songs

Sing me at morn but only with your laugh;
Even as Spring that laugheth into leaf;
Even as Love that laugheth after Life
Sing me but only with your speech all day,
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The Sentry

We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
And gave us hell, for shell on frantic
Hammered on top, but never quite burst through
Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime,
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The Wrestlers

So neck to neck and obstinate knee to
Wrestled those two; and peerless
Could not prevail nor catch at any vantage;
But those huge hands which small had strangled
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An Imperial Elegy

Not one corner of a foreign
But a span as wide as Europe;
An appearance of a titan's grave,
And the length thereof a thousand miles,
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Hospital Barge At Cerisy

Budging the sluggard ripples of the Somme,
A barge round old Cérisy slowly slewed
Softly her engines down the current screwed,
And chuckled softly with contented hum,
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At A Calvary Near The Ancre

One ever hangs where shelled roads part
In this war He too lost a limb,
But His disciples hide apart;
And now the Soldiers bear with Him
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Maundy Thursday

Between the brown hands of a
The silver cross was offered to be kissed
The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad,
And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced
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The Parable Of The Old Man And The Young

So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
And took the fire with him, and a knife
And as they sojourned both of them together,
Isaac the first-born spake and said,
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The Kind Ghosts

She sleeps on soft, last breaths; but no ghost
Out of the stillness of her palace wall,
Her wall of boys on boys and dooms on dooms
She dreams of golden gardens and sweet glooms,
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