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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
Inward
Pass
Age
Hope
Like
Shrouded
Beasts
Gloom

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All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
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After all my years of playing soldiers, and then of reading History, I have almost a mania to be in the East, to see fighting, and to serve.
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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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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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All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful.
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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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If I have to be a soldier I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable
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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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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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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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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 I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot
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The universal pervasion of ugliness, hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language...everything. Unnatural, broken, blasted the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious.
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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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I tried to peg out soldierly,--no use! One dies of war like any old disease.
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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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Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds not on the cess of war.
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Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do
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