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

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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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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
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Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.
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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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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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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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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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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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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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Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.
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Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.
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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to death.
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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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Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
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Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot
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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.
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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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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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