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

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All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful.
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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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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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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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As bronze may be much beautified by lying in the dark damp soil, so men who fade in dust of warfare fade fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.
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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
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And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan. And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further, Showed me its feet, the feet of many men, And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.
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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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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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Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.
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All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
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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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I, too, saw God through mud
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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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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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So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
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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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I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law
Wilfred Owen