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Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.

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
Gloom
Inward
Pass
Age
Hope
Like
Shrouded
Beasts

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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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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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Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.
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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
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Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.
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I tried to peg out soldierly,--no use! One dies of war like any old disease.
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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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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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These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
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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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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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Children are not meant to be studied, but enjoyed. Only by studying to be pleased do we understand them.
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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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Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds, But here the thing's best left at home with friends.
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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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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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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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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to death.
Wilfred Owen