Poems by Wilfred Owen
With an Introduction by Siegfried Sassoon

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Contents:

Introduction by Siegfried Sassoon

Preface by the poet

Strange Meeting	It seemed that out of the battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Greater Love	Red lips are not so red       As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Apologia pro Poemate Meo	I, too, saw God through mud -- - The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled.
The Show	My soul looked down from a vague height with Death, As unremembering how I rose or why,
Mental Cases	Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight? Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Parable of the Old Men and the Young	So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went, And took the fire with him, and a knife.
Arms and the Boy	Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade How cold steel is, and keen with hunger of blood;
Anthem for Doomed Youth	What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?       Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
The Send-off	Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way To the siding-shed,
Insensibility	Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
Dulce et Decorum est	Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
The Sentry	We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew, And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell
The Dead-Beat	He dropped, -- - more sullenly than wearily, Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,
Exposure	Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us . . . Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . .
Spring Offensive	Halted against the shade of a last hill, They fed, and, lying easy, were at ease
The Chances	I mind as 'ow the night afore that show Us five got talking, -- - we was in the know,
S. I. W.	Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face;
Futility	Move him into the sun -- - Gently its touch awoke him once,
Smile, Smile, Smile	Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned Yesterday's Mail; the casualties (typed small)
Conscious	His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed. His eyes come open with a pull of will,
A Terre	Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell, Be careful; can't shake hands now; never shall.
Wild with all Regrets	My arms have mutinied against me -- - brutes! My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,
Disabled	He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark, And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey,
The End	After the blast of lightning from the east, The flourish of loud clouds, the Chariot throne,