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It was one of only five poems he saw published in his lifetime: he also described how he'd sent it to The Nation the same evening as writing it, saying (in a letter to his mother), that "for half an hour's work I think Two Guineas is good pay".
However, as a newly commissioned officer in June 1916, he'd described the men in his platoon as "hard-handed, hard-headed miners, dogged, loutish, ugly.
The Owens moved there from Shrewsbury in 1900, Tom Owen having been appointed stationmaster at the Woodside terminus.
All sulky red brick and wheelie-bins today, the place was bustling and industrious at the turn of the century.
But a further four were singled out because of their poor results and poor student attendance records.
His poem "Miners" begins, like a good story, by the fire: There was a whispering in my hearth, A sigh of the coal, Grown wistful of a former earth It might recall.
The centuries will burn rich loads With which we groaned, Whose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids, While songs are crooned; But they will not dream of us poor lads, Left in the ground.
This poem was written in Scarborough in January 1918, only weeks after Owen had been discharged from Craiglockhart Hospital with orders to rejoin his unit.
Newly arrived in France in January 1917, Second Lieutenant Wilfred Owen wrote home to his mother, explaining how the real thing - mud - was making itself manifest, inundating his sleeping bag and his pyjamas: welcome to the Western Front.
But the most striking thing about this correspondence is his annoyance and irritation at being billeted with "the roughest set of knaves I have ever been herded with".