Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes What candles may be held to speed them all? The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells Īnd bugles calling for them from sad shires.
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,. No mockeries now for them no prayers nor bells What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? These words are angry, but war is angry, vengeful, ugly, and soul-breaking. Here are a couple of Wilfred’s poems to remind us what war means to those who fight it. If we can’t do this, we don’t deserve their service. We owe them much, most especially, to look after them once they return. Read some of Wilfred’s amazing poetry and you will never look at the news headlines and our war veterans the same again. Or really, how easily we send other people’s young off to die. His life ended at just 25, Wilfred’s poetry left us a heartbreaking, beautiful, haunting, honest, soul-searching vision of war. He was killed in battle just a week before WW1 ended and his untimely death more than anything is probably the reason he didn’t receive the same fame as his friend and fellow poet, Siegfried Sassoon. Wilfred Owen (1893-1918) was probably the greatest war poet. Wilfred Owen – he left us at 25, dying in battle a week before WW1’s end.
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