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Poems of the First World War


Poems by Wilfred Owen

Mental Cases


Anthem for Doomed Youth


Imperial Elegy

Dulce et Decorum Est

These poems by Wilfred Owen can be found in many anthologies of First World War poetry, including Minds at War, Poetry and Experience of the First World War, and Out in the Dark, Poetry of the First World War in Context and with basic notes.

The latter is particularly useful for students as many of the unfamiliar terms used by Owen in these poems are explained in footnotes


Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight? 
Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows,
Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish,
Baring teeth that leer like skulls' teeth wicked? 
Stroke on stroke of pain, - but what slow panic, 
Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets? 
Ever from their hair and through their hands' palms 
Misery swelters. Surely we have perished 
Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish?

- These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished.
Memory fingers in their hair of murders, 
Multitudinous murders they once witnessed. 
Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander, 
Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter. 
Always they must see these things and hear them, 
Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles, 
Carnage incomparable, and human squander 
Rucked too thick for these men's extrication.

Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented
Back into their brains, because on their sense
Sunlight seems a blood-smear; night comes blood-black; 
Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh.
- Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous, 
Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses.


- Thus their hands are plucking at each other; 
Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging;
Snatching after us who smote them, brother, 
Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.

Wilfred Owen

May-July, 1918

Background to Mental Cases

Mental breakdown was beginning to be recognised as a medical condition in the First World War.

Wilfred Owen would have been all too familiar with shell shock through personal experience and through meeting men in Craiglockhart War Hospital in Edinburgh whose minds had been disturbed perhaps temporarily, perhaps for ever.

This poem also seems to owe something to a passage in the Bible that Owen was probably familiar with: Revelations, chapter 7, verses 13-14. “What are these which are arrayed in white robes? And whence came they? And I said unto him, Sir, thou knowest . . .  And he said unto me, These are they which came out of great tribulation, and have washed their robes, and made them white in the blood.”


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. 
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. 
Are limbs, so dear achieved, are sides 
Full-nerved - still warm - too hard to stir? 
Was it for this the clay grew tall? 
O what made fatuous sunbeams toil 
To break earth's sleep at all?

Wilfred Owen

May, 1918


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.4
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; 
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, - 
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; 
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all? 
Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes 
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. 
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

September - October, 1917


He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark,
And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey, 
Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park 
Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn, 
Voices of play and pleasure after day,
Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him.

About this time Town used to swing so gay
When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees, 
And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim, - 
In the old times, before he threw away his knees. 
Now he will never feel again how slim
Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands. 
All of them touch him like some queer disease.

There was an artist silly for his face,
For it was younger than his youth, last year. 
Now, he is old; his back will never brace; 
He's lost his colour very far from here,
Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry, 
And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race 
And leap of purple spurted from his thigh.

One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg,
After the matches, carried shoulder-high.
It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg,
He thought he'd better join.  -  He wonders why. 
Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts, 
That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg, 

Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts 
He asked to join. He didn't have to beg; 
Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years.

Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt, 
And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears 
Of Fear came yet. He thought of jewelled hilts 
For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes; 
And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears; 
Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits.
And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers.

Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal. 
Only a solemn man who brought him fruits 
Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul.

Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes, 
And do what things the rules consider wise, 
And take whatever pity they may dole. 
Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes
Passed from him to the strong men that were whole. 
How cold and late it is! Why don't they come 
And put him into bed? Why don't they come?

Wilfred Owen

October 1917 - July, 1918


Not one corner of a foreign field
But a span as wide as Europe; 
An appearance of a titan's grave,
And the length thereof a thousand miles, 
It crossed all Europe like a mystic road,
Or as the Spirits' Pathway lieth on the night. 
And I heard a voice crying 
This is the Path of Glory.

Wilfred Owen

September 1915-May? 1916

Although An Imperial Elegy was not written at the end of the war this poem by Wilfred Owen is unusual in not being based on, or being a reaction to, personal experience. Instead, as he imagines the end of the war, Owen takes a comprehensive view of the consequences of the war.


Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs 
And towards our distant rest began to trudge. 
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling, 
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; 
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling, 
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime . . .
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, 
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace 
Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; 
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 
Obscene as cancer, 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.

Wilfred Owen

8 October 1917 - March, 1918

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