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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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Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.
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If I have to be a soldier I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable
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Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do
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I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears and caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts and buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts and rusted every bayonet with His tears.
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When I begin to eliminate from the list all those professions which are impossible from a financial point of view and then those which I feel disinclined to-it leaves nothing
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And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan. And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further, Showed me its feet, the feet of many men, And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.
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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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Was it for this the clay grew tall? O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all?
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Strange friend,' I said,'here is no cause to mourn.' 'None,'said the other,'save the undone years, The hopelessness.Whatever hope is yours Was my life also I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world.
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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
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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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So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
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Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.
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No-man's land under snow is like the face of the moon: chaotic, crater ridden, uninhabitable, awful, the abode of madness.
Wilfred Owen
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And some cease feeling Even themselves or for themselves. Dullness best solves The tease and doubt of shelling
Wilfred Owen
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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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These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
Wilfred Owen
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This book is not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War. Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.
Wilfred Owen