Quote

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.

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
Beauty
Perceived
Peace
Shells
War
Storm
Spate
Found
Straight
Hoarse
Music
Kept
Oaths
Much
Courage
Storms
Duty
Shell
Heard
Oath

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I, too, saw God through mud
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These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
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Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.
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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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All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful.
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Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
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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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All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
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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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My subject is war, and the pity of war.
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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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Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.
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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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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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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.
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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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Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
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All a poet can do today is warn.
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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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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.
Wilfred Owen