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

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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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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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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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All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
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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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All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful.
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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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These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
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A Poem does not grow by jerks. As trees in Spring produce a new ring of tissue, so does every poet put forth a fresh outlay of stuff at the same season.
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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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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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And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
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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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If I have to be a soldier I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable
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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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All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
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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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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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