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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.

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
Wars
Dull
Seemed
Scooped
Profound
Titanic
Battle
Granite
Since
Escaped
War
Tunnel
Long
Tunnels

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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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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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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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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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Walking abroad, one is the admiration of all little boys, and meets an approving glance from every eye of elderly.
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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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My subject is war, and the pity of war.
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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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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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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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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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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
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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 thought of all that worked dark pits Of war, and died Digging the rock where Death reputes Peace lies indeed.
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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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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.
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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
Wilfred Owen