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Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.

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
Fitting
Sweet
Dies
Fatherland

More quotes by Wilfred Owen

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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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My subject is war, and the pity of war.
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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.
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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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Walking abroad, one is the admiration of all little boys, and meets an approving glance from every eye of elderly.
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Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.
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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
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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.
Wilfred Owen
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Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.
Wilfred Owen
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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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Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do
Wilfred Owen
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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.
Wilfred Owen
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Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.
Wilfred Owen
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I, too, saw God through mud
Wilfred Owen
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These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
Wilfred Owen
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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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All a poet can do today is warn.
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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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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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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
Wilfred Owen