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

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Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot
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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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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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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do
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These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
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So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
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All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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The marvel is that we did not all die of cold. As a matter of fact, only one of my party actually froze to death before he could be got back, but I am not able to tell how many have ended up in hospital. We were marooned in a frozen desert. There was not a sign of life on the horizon and a thousand signs of death.
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Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.
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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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The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.
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My subject is war, and the pity of war.
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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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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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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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Whatever mourns when many leave these shores: Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.
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