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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 and stood in contrast to the public perception of war at the time and to the ...
Wilfred Owen - The Academy of American Poets is the largest membership-based nonprofit organization fostering an appreciation for contemporary poetry and supporting American poets. One of the most admired poets of World War I, Wilfred Edward Salter Owen is best known for his poems "Anthem for Doomed Youth" and "Dulce et Decorum Est."
Futility. By Wilfred Owen. Move him into the sun— Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields half-sown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse him now. The kind old sun will know. Think how it wakes the seeds— Woke once the clays of a cold star.
Arms and the Boy. By Wilfred Owen. 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-leads, Which long to nuzzle in the hearts of lads,
Wilfred Owen, who wrote some of the best British poetry on World War I, composed nearly all of his poems in slightly over a year, from August 1917 to September 1918. In November 1918 he was killed in action at the age of 25, one...
Spring Offensive. By Wilfred Owen. Halted against the shade of a last hill, They fed, and, lying easy, were at ease. And, finding comfortable chests and knees. Carelessly slept. But many there stood still. To face the stark, blank sky beyond the ridge, Knowing their feet had come to the end of the world.
Insensibility. By Wilfred Owen. I. Happy are men who yet before they are killed. Can let their veins run cold. Whom no compassion fleers. Or makes their feet. Sore on the alleys cobbled with their brothers. The front line withers. But they are troops who fade, not flowers, For poets’ tearful fooling: Men, gaps for filling:
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