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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
Men
Snow
Like
Madness
Awful
Uninhabitable
Moon
Crater
Land
Craters
Face
Ridden
Faces
Abode
War
Chaotic

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Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot
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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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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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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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These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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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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All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
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Whatever mourns when many leave these shores: Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.
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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 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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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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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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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.
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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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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 tried to peg out soldierly,--no use! One dies of war like any old disease.
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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 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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