Quote

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.

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
Poor
Warmth
Lads
Song
Burn
Groaned
Left
Ground
Lulls
Dream
Songs
Lad
Time
Whose
Loads
Century
Dreaming
Shall
Load
Lids
Rich
Centuries
Lull

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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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All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
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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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Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
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I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness.
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All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful.
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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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Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.
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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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Whatever mourns when many leave these shores: Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.
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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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Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.
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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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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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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 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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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 was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's
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I, too, saw God through mud
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When I begin to eliminate from the list all those professions which are impossible from a financial point of view and then those which I feel disinclined to-it leaves nothing
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