Quote

My soul's a little grief, grappling your chest, To climb your throat on sobs easily chased On other sighs and wiped by fresher winds.

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
Little
Climb
Sighs
Climbs
Grappling
Throat
Chased
Easily
Wiped
Grief
Winds
Wind
Sigh
Littles
Chest
Fresher
Soul
Chests
Sobs

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Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
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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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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 was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's
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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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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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All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful.
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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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So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
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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 find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law
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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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The marvel is that we did not all die of cold. As a matter of fact, only one of my party actually froze to death before he could be got back, but I am not able to tell how many have ended up in hospital. We were marooned in a frozen desert. There was not a sign of life on the horizon and a thousand signs of death.
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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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Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.
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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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Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
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The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.
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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Wilfred Owen