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Walking abroad, one is the admiration of all little boys, and meets an approving glance from every eye of elderly.

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
Littles
Meets
Little
Glances
Every
Abroad
Admiration
Walking
Boys
Approving
Eye
Glance
War
Elderly

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I thought of all that worked dark pits Of war, and died Digging the rock where Death reputes Peace lies indeed.
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Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.
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As bronze may be much beautified by lying in the dark damp soil, so men who fade in dust of warfare fade fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.
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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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Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.
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All a poet can do today is warn.
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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot
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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 universal pervasion of ugliness, hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language...everything. Unnatural, broken, blasted the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious.
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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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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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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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And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
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Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.
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So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
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All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful.
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All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
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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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