Wilfred Owen

Now rather thank I God there is no riskOf gravers scoring it with florid screed.Let my inscription be this soldier's read more

Now rather thank I God there is no riskOf gravers scoring it with florid screed.Let my inscription be this soldier's disc.Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.But may thy heart-beat kiss it, night and day,Until the name grow blurred and fade away.

What passing bells for these who die as cattle?Only the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattleCan read more

What passing bells for these who die as cattle?Only the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattleCan patter out their hasty orisons. - Anthem for Doomed Youth.

Move him into the sun —Gently its touch awoke him once,At home, whispering of fields unsown.Always it woke him, even read more

Move him into the sun —Gently its touch awoke him once,At home, whispering of fields unsown.Always it woke him, even in France,Until this morning and this snow.

My arms have mutinied against me — brutes!My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,My back's been stiff for hours, damned read more

My arms have mutinied against me — brutes!My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,My back's been stiff for hours, damned hours.Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

Was it for this the clay grew tall?