Sigfried Sassoon was always my favourite war poet, but on my walks I keep walking past Wilfred Owen's house.
At school we studied (a lot) about Wilfred Owen. And when I was studying stylistics, I found a great course at the University of Lancaster with an exercise on him: https://www.lancaster.ac.uk/fass/projects/stylistics/topic1b/2anthem.htm The British Library has a whole section online with information: https://www.bl.uk/people/wilfred-owen
Maybe, it's growing older that means I appreciate Owen more now, maybe it's just a sign of the times we live in today.
Down the close darkening lanes they sang their way
To the siding-shed,
And lined the train with faces grimly gay.
Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray
As men’s are, dead.
Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp
Stood staring hard,
Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.
Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp
Winked to the guard.
So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
They were not ours:
We never heard to which front these were sent;
Nor there if they yet mock what women meant
Who gave them flowers.
Shall they return to beating of great bells
In wild train-loads?
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,
May creep back, silent, to village wells,
Up half-known roads.