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- “The Sentry” by Wilfred Owen is a composition of vivid imagery portraying the horrors of war and the trauma suffered by the soldiers. Many critics consider this poem as being a very personal composition for Owen and believe that the poem reflects his personal experience since Owen was a British soldier who fought in World War 1.
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Aug 2, 2017 · “The Sentry” by Wilfred Owen is a composition of vivid imagery portraying the horrors of war and the trauma suffered by the soldiers. Many critics consider this poem as being a very personal composition for Owen and believe that the poem reflects his personal experience since Owen was a British soldier who fought in World War 1.
Let dread hark back for one word only: how Half-listening to that sentry’s moans and jumps, And the wild chattering of his broken teeth, Renewed most horribly whenever crumps Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath— Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout “I see your lights!”
The Sentry. Owen began THE SENTRY while he was receiving hospital treatment at Craiglockhart in 1917 and he continued it the following summer. Finally, it was completed in France that September. For its origins we go back to a letter to his mother dated 16th January 1917.
May 13, 2011 · An analysis of the The Sentry poem by Wilfred Owen including schema, poetic form, metre, stanzas and plenty more comprehensive statistics.
- 1,726
- 20
- Iambic pentameter
- 321
Owen wrote most of ‘The Sentry while receiving hospital treatment for shell-shock at Craiglockhart in 1917. He completed it not long before his death in France in September… Read More
“The Sentry is a very vivid poem written by Wilfred Owen which describes the horrendous conditions he remembers during life in the trenches of World War One. We learn how the trenches sounded and smelt like, and also how the effects of war live with you forever.
The Sentry. We’d found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew, And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell. Hammered on top, but never quite burst through. Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime. Kept slush waist high, that rising hour by hour, Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb. What murk of air remained stank old, and sour.
