Quote

The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

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
Pallor
Drawing
Pall
Patient
Blinds
Minds
Dusk
Girls
Brows
Flower
Tenderness
Shall
Flowers
Girl
Mind
Slow

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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.
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Whatever mourns when many leave these shores: Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.
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These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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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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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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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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Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
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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 English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.
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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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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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All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
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Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.
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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
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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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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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Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Wilfred Owen