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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
Fatherland
Fitting
Sweet
Dies

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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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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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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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I tried to peg out soldierly,--no use! One dies of war like any old disease.
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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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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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Do you know what would hold me together on a battlefield? The sense that I was perpetuating the language in which Keats and the rest of them wrote!
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Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.
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Was it for this the clay grew tall?
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All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
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I, too, saw God through mud - The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.
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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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I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's
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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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Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.
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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 find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law
Wilfred Owen
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Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
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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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As bronze may be much beautified by lying in the dark damp soil, so men who fade in dust of warfare fade fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.
Wilfred Owen