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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I tried to peg out soldierly,--no use! One dies of war like any old disease.
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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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All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
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So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.
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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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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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Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.
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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 Young Soldier It is not death Without hereafter To one in dearth Of life and its laughter, Nor the sweet murder Dealt slow and even Unto the martyr Smiling at heaven: It is the smile Faint as a (waning) myth, Faint, and exceeding small On a boy's murdered mouth.
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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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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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Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.
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Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do
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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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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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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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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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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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