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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.
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
Dark
Pits
Lying
Digging
Peace
Indeed
War
Rock
Death
Worked
Thought
Died
Rocks
Lies
More quotes by Wilfred Owen
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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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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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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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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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.
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So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
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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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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
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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, too, saw God through mud
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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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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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If I have to be a soldier I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable
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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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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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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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The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.
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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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Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
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