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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.

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

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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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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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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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And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
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For by my glee might many men have laughed, And of my weeping may something have been left, Which must die now.
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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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I, too, saw God through mud
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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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I tried to peg out soldierly,--no use! One dies of war like any old disease.
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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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All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
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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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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.
Wilfred Owen
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Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.
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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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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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Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.
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Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot
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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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Soldiers may grow a soul when turned to fronds, But here the thing's best left at home with friends.
Wilfred Owen