- Joined
- Sep 27, 2002
- Messages
- 3,411
The poet Wilfred Owen was killed in November 1918, a few days before the end of the war. The house, near the town of Ors, in which he sheltered just before his death has been rebuilt in his honour. The cemetery in which he lies is nearby.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/new...3/A-shrine-to-war-poet-hero-Wilfred-Owen.html
Owen's last letter home was written in the cellar:
"Dearest Mother,
So thick is the smoke in this cellar that I can hardly see by a candle 12 inches away. And so thick are the inmates that I can hardly write for pokes, nudges, and jolts. On my left, the company commander snores on a bench. It is a great life. I am more oblivious than the less, dear mother, of the ghastly glimmering of the guns outside and the hollow crashing of the shells.
I hope you are as warm as I am, soothed in your room as I am here. I am certain you could not be visited by a band of friends half so fine as surround us here. There is no danger down here - or if any, it will be well over before you read these line..."
I must visit this place the next time I am in France.
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/new...3/A-shrine-to-war-poet-hero-Wilfred-Owen.html
Owen's last letter home was written in the cellar:
"Dearest Mother,
So thick is the smoke in this cellar that I can hardly see by a candle 12 inches away. And so thick are the inmates that I can hardly write for pokes, nudges, and jolts. On my left, the company commander snores on a bench. It is a great life. I am more oblivious than the less, dear mother, of the ghastly glimmering of the guns outside and the hollow crashing of the shells.
I hope you are as warm as I am, soothed in your room as I am here. I am certain you could not be visited by a band of friends half so fine as surround us here. There is no danger down here - or if any, it will be well over before you read these line..."
I must visit this place the next time I am in France.
