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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
Hope
Like
Shrouded
Beasts
Gloom
Inward
Pass
Age

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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
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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.
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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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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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The centuries will burn rich loads With which we groaned, Whose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids, While songs are crooned: But they will not dream of us poor lads, Left in the ground.
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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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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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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 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.
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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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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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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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When I begin to eliminate from the list all those professions which are impossible from a financial point of view and then those which I feel disinclined to-it leaves nothing
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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
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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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Whatever mourns when many leave these shores: Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.
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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.
Wilfred Owen