I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
1918 'Strange Meeting', collected in Poems (published1920).
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles'rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons.Wilfred Owen
Red lips are not so red As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.Wilfred Owen
Thisbook isnot about heroes.Englishpoetry isnot yet fit to speak of them.Wilfred Owen
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.Wilfred Owen
All the poet can do today is to warn. That is why the true Poet must be truthful.Wilfred Owen
It seemed that out of battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which titanic wars had groined.Wilfred Owen
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.Wilfred Owen
'Strange friend,' I said,'here is no cause to mourn.' 'None,'said the other,'save the undone years, The hopelessness.Whatever hope is yours Was my life also; I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world.'Wilfred Owen
Move him into the sun Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields unsown.Wilfred Owen
If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know.Wilfred Owen
Was it for this the clay grew tall? O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all?Wilfred Owen
So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.Wilfred Owen
Whatever mourns when many leave these shores: Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.Wilfred Owen
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.Wilfred Owen
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, Bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. See Horace 413:23.Wilfred Owen
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.Wilfred Owen
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