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

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Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do
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All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
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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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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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Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot
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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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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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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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Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to death.
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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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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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Children are not meant to be studied, but enjoyed. Only by studying to be pleased do we understand them.
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The old happiness is unreturning. Boy's griefs are not so grievous as youth's yearning. Boys have no sadness sadder than our hope.
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Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds, But here the thing's best left at home with friends.
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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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Was it for this the clay grew tall? O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all?
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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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Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Wilfred Owen