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The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.

Wilfred Owen

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Wilfred Owen
Age: 25 †
Born: 1893
Born: March 18
Died: 1918
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
Oswestry
Shropshire
Wilfred Edward Salter Owen
Owen
English
Truly
Feet
Italians
Head
Kick
Mean
Kicks
Kiss
Kissing

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I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness.
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I don't ask myself, is the life congenial to me? But, am I fitted for, am I called to, the Ministry?
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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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My friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory. The old lie: It is sweet and fitting that you should die for your country.
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The old happiness is unreturning. Boy's griefs are not so grievous as youth's yearning. Boys have no sadness sadder than our hope.
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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.
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And some cease feeling Even themselves or for themselves. Dullness best solves The tease and doubt of shelling
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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.
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Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.
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Do you know what would hold me together on a battlefield? The sense that I was perpetuating the language in which Keats and the rest of them wrote!
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I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's
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All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
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Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds, But here the thing's best left at home with friends.
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The war affects me less than it ought. But I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making dole over the slaughter.
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Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.
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I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law
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A Poem does not grow by jerks. As trees in Spring produce a new ring of tissue, so does every poet put forth a fresh outlay of stuff at the same season.
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Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
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If I have to be a soldier I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable
Wilfred Owen