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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
Drawing
Pallor
Patient
Pall
Minds
Blinds
Girls
Dusk
Flower
Brows
Shall
Tenderness
Girl
Flowers
Mind
Slow
More quotes by Wilfred Owen
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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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness.
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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 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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I tried to peg out soldierly,--no use! One dies of war like any old disease.
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Strange friend,' I said,'here is no cause to mourn.' 'None,'said the other,'save the undone years, The hopelessness.Whatever hope is yours Was my life also I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world.
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Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.
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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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Whatever mourns when many leave these shores: Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.
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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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Children are not meant to be studied, but enjoyed. Only by studying to be pleased do we understand them.
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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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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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Walking abroad, one is the admiration of all little boys, and meets an approving glance from every eye of elderly.
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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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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.
Wilfred Owen