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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Poems
Wilfred Owen
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Introduction
In writing an Introduction such as this it is good to be brief。 The poems
printed in this book need no preliminary commendations from me or
anyone else。 The author has left us his own fragmentary but impressive
Foreword； this； and his Poems； can speak for him； backed by the authority
of his experience as an infantry soldier； and sustained by nobility and
originality of style。 All that was strongest in Wilfred Owen survives in his
poems； any superficial impressions of his personality； any records of his
conversation； behaviour； or appearance； would be irrelevant and unseemly。
The curiosity which demands such morsels would be incapable of
appreciating the richness of his work。
The discussion of his experiments in assonance and dissonance （of
which ‘Strange Meeting' is the finest example） may be left to the
professional critics of verse； the majority of whom will be more
preoccupied with such technical details than with the profound humanity
of the self…revelation manifested in such magnificent lines as those at the
end of his ‘Apologia pro Poemate Meo'； and in that other poem which he
named ‘Greater Love'。
The importance of his contribution to the literature of the War cannot
be decided by those who； like myself； both admired him as a poet and
valued him as a friend。 His conclusions about War are so entirely in
accordance with my own that I cannot attempt to judge his work with any
critical detachment。 I can only affirm that he was a man of absolute
integrity of mind。 He never wrote his poems （as so many war…poets did） to
make the effect of a personal gesture。 He pitied others； he did not pity
himself。 In the last year of his life he attained a clear vision of what he
needed to say； and these poems survive him as his true and splendid
testament。
Wilfred Owen was born at Oswestry on 18th March 1893。 He was
educated at the Birkenhead Institute； and matriculated at London
University in 1910。 In 1913 he obtained a private tutorship near Bordeaux；
where he remained until 1915。 During this period he became acquainted
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
with the eminent French poet； Laurent Tailhade； to whom he showed his
early verses； and from whom he received considerable encouragement。 In
1915； in spite of delicate health； he joined the Artists' Rifles O。T。C。； was
gazetted to the Manchester Regiment； and served with their 2nd Battalion
in France from December 1916 to June 1917； when he was invalided
home。 Fourteen months later he returned to the Western Front and served
with the same Battalion； ultimately commanding a Company。
He was awarded the Military Cross for gallantry while taking part in
some heavy fighting on 1st October。 He was killed on 4th November 1918；
while endeavouring to get his men across the Sambre Canal。
A month before his death he wrote to his mother： 〃My nerves are in
perfect order。 I came out again in order to help these boys； directly； by
leading them as well as an officer can； indirectly； by watching their
sufferings that I may speak of them as well as a pleader can。〃 Let his own
words be his epitaph：
〃Courage was mine； and I had mystery； Wisdom was mine； and I had
mastery。〃
Siegfried Sassoon。
= POEMS =
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Poems by Wilfred Owen
Preface
This book is not about heroes。 English Poetry is not yet fit to speak of
them。 Nor is it about deeds or lands； nor anything about glory； honour；
dominion or power； except War。 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。 Yet these elegies are not to this generation； This is in no sense
consolatory。
They may be to the next。 All the poet can do to…day is to warn。 That is
why the true Poets must be truthful。 If I thought the letter of this book
would last； I might have used proper names； but if the spirit of it survives
Prussia； my ambition and those names will be content； for they will
have achieved themselves fresher fields than Flanders。
Note。 This Preface was found； in an unfinished condition； among
Wilfred Owen's papers。
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Strange Meeting
It seemed that out of the battle I escaped Down some profound dull
tunnel； long since scooped Through granites which Titanic wars had
groined。 Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned； Too fast in thought
or death to be bestirred。 Then； as I probed them； one sprang up； and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes； Lifting distressful hands as if to
bless。 And by his smile； I knew that sullen hall； With a thousand fears that
vision's face was grained； Yet no blood reached there from the upper
ground； And no guns thumped； or down the flues made moan。 〃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； Which lies
not calm in eyes； or braided hair； But mocks the steady running of the hour；
And if it grieves； grieves richlier than here。 For by my glee might many
men have laughed； And of my weeping something has been left； Which
must die now。 I mean the truth untold； The pity of war； the pity war
distilled。 Now men will go content with what we spoiled。 Or； discontent；
boil bloody； and be spilled。 They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress；
None will break ranks； though nations trek from progress。 Courage was
mine； and I had mystery； Wisdom was mine； and I had mastery； To miss
the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled。
Then； when much blood had clogged their chariot…wheels I would go up
and wash them from sweet wells； Even with truths that lie too deep for
taint。 I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds；
not on the cess of war。 Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were。
I am the enemy you killed； my friend。 I knew you in this dark； for so you
frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed。 I parried； but my
hands were loath and cold。 Let us sleep now 。 。 。〃
（This poem was found among the author's papers。 It ends on this
strange note。）
*Another Version*
Earth's wheels run oiled with blood。 Forget we that。 Let us lie down
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and dig ourselves in thought。 Beauty is yours and you have mastery；
Wisdom is mine； and I have mystery。 We two will stay behind and keep
our troth。 Let us forego men's minds that are brute's natures； Let us not sup
the blood which some say nurtures； Be we not swift with swiftness of the
tigress。 Let us break ranks from those who trek from progress。 Miss we the
march of this retreating world Into old citadels that are not walled。 Let us
lie out and hold the open truth。 Then when their blood hath clogged the
chariot wheels We will go up and wash them from deep wells。 What
though we sink from men as pitchers falling Many shall raise us up to be
their filling Even from wells we sunk too deep for war And filled by brows
that bled where no wounds were。
*Alternative line …
Even as One who bled where no wounds were。
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Greater Love
Red lips are not so red As