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Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.

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
Profession
Active
Continue
War
Ever
Enthusiasm
Flying

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All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
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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 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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I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law
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All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
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Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do
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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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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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Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
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These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
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I tried to peg out soldierly,--no use! One dies of war like any old disease.
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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.
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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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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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So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
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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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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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Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
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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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