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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
Kicks
Kiss
Kissing
English
Truly
Feet
Head
Italians
Mean
Kick

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Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
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These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
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Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
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Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to death.
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It seemed that out of battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
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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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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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Whatever mourns when many leave these shores: Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.
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Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do
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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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The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
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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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After all my years of playing soldiers, and then of reading History, I have almost a mania to be in the East, to see fighting, and to serve.
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Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds not on the cess of war.
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I, too, saw God through mud - The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.
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All a poet can do today is warn.
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All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
Wilfred Owen
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And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
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Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.
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Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.
Wilfred Owen