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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
Peace
Indeed
War
Rock
Death
Worked
Thought
Died
Rocks
Lies
Dark
Pits
Lying
Digging

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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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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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I, too, saw God through mud
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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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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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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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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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I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law
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Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.
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Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do
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My subject is war, and the pity of war.
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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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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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Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
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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.
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I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. Yet these elegies are to this generation in no sense conciliatory. They may be to the next. All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful.
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Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot
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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 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.
Wilfred Owen