Quote

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.

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
World
Went
Mourn
Causes
Hunting
Beauty
Wild
Whatever
Save
Hope
None
Also
Friend
Wildest
Years
Cause
Hopelessness
Life
Strange
Undone

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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.
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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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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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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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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do
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Whatever mourns when many leave these shores: Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.
Wilfred Owen
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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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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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Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.
Wilfred Owen
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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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For by my glee might many men have laughed, And of my weeping may something have been left, Which must die now.
Wilfred Owen
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Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot
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All a poet can do today is warn.
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Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.
Wilfred Owen
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Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.
Wilfred Owen
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Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds, But here the thing's best left at home with friends.
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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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Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
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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
Wilfred Owen