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Wilfred Owen
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(1893-1918)
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A Terre
Sit on the bed; I'm blind, and three parts shell,
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Anthem for Doomed Youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
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Apologia Pro Poemate Meo
I, too, saw God through mud--
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Arms and the Boy
Let the boy try along this bayonet-blade
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At a Calvary Near the Ancre
One ever hangs where shelled roads part.
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Conscious
His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed.
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Disabled
He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
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Dulce et Decorum Est
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
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Exposure
Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us ...
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Futility
Move him into the sun--
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Greater Love
Red lips are not so red
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Insensibility
Happy are men who yet before they are killed
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Mental Cases
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight?
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On Seeing a Piece of Our Heavy Artillery Brought into Action
Be slowly lifted up, thou long black arm,
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S. I. W.
"I will to the King,
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Smile, Smile, Smile
Head to limp head, the sunk-eyed wounded scanned
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Spring Offensive
Halted against the shade of a last hill,
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Strange Meeting
It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
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The Chances
I mind as 'ow the night afore that show
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The Dead-beat
He dropped, - more sullenly than wearily,
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The End
After the blast of lightning from the east,
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The Parable of the Old Man and the Young
So Abram rose, and clave the wood, and went,
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The Send-off
Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way
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The Sentry
We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew,
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The Show
My soul looked down from a vague height with Death,
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Wild with all Regrets
My arms have mutinied against me -- brutes!
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