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

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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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I, too, saw God through mud
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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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Children are not meant to be studied, but enjoyed. Only by studying to be pleased do we understand them.
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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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Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
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I, too, saw God through mud - The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.
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And some cease feeling Even themselves or for themselves. Dullness best solves The tease and doubt of shelling
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Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.
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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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So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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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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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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I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's
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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 theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
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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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