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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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Wilfred Owen
Age: 25 †
Born: 1893
Born: March 18
Died: 1918
Died: November 4
Poet
Writer
Oswestry
Shropshire
Wilfred Edward Salter Owen
Owen
Moon
Crater
Land
Craters
Face
Ridden
Faces
Abode
War
Chaotic
Men
Snow
Like
Madness
Awful
Uninhabitable

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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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And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
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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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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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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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My soul's a little grief, grappling your chest, To climb your throat on sobs easily chased On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.
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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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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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The Young Soldier It is not death Without hereafter To one in dearth Of life and its laughter, Nor the sweet murder Dealt slow and even Unto the martyr Smiling at heaven: It is the smile Faint as a (waning) myth, Faint, and exceeding small On a boy's murdered mouth.
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So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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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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Whatever mourns when many leave these shores: Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.
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For by my glee might many men have laughed, And of my weeping may something have been left, Which must die now.
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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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These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
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All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
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I have perceived much beauty In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight Heard music in the silentness of duty Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.
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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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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