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

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All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful.
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Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.
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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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And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
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Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
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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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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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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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Whatever mourns when many leave these shores: Whatever shares The eternal reciprocity of tears.
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Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.
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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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These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
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I tried to peg out soldierly,--no use! One dies of war like any old disease.
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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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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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Children are not meant to be studied, but enjoyed. Only by studying to be pleased do we understand them.
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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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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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And some cease feeling Even themselves or for themselves. Dullness best solves The tease and doubt of shelling
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