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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.

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
Soul
Fades
Much
Warfare
Men
Soil
Beautified
Dust
Fairer
Sorrow
Blooms
Dark
Bronze
Lying
Damp
May
Fade

More quotes by Wilfred Owen

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Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.
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Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot
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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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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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I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's
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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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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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Whatever mourns when many leave these shores: Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.
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Walking abroad, one is the admiration of all little boys, and meets an approving glance from every eye of elderly.
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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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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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All a poet can do today is warn.
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Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.
Wilfred Owen
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I tried to peg out soldierly,--no use! One dies of war like any old disease.
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All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful.
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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.
Wilfred Owen
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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.
Wilfred Owen
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So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
Wilfred Owen
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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
Wilfred Owen
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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.
Wilfred Owen