Quotes from Wilfred Owen

Those who have no hope pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.

If you could hear, at every jolt, the bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—My friend, you would not tell with such high zestTo children ardent for some desperate glory,The old Lie: Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori.

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

Above all, this book is not concerned with Poetry,The subject of it is War, and the pity of War.The Poetry is in the pity.All a poet can do is warn.

Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.

What passing bells for these who die as cattleOnly the monstrous anger of the guns.Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattleCan patter out their hasty orisons.

Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.

And you have fixed my life — however short. You did not light me: I was always a mad comet; but you have fixed me. I spun round you a satellite for a month, but I shall swing out soon, a dark star in the orbit where you will blaze.

The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

All a poet can do today is warn.

This book is not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War. Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.

Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.

Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.

Sleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad.

And in his eyes The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak, In different skies.

Oh, Death was never enemy of ours! We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum. No soldier's paid to kick against His powers. We laughed, — knowing that better men would come, And greater wars: when each proud fighter brags He wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags.

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory That old lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

Behold, A ram, caught in a thicket by its horns; Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him. But the old man would not so, but slew his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one

But the old man would not so, but slew his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one.

The universal pervasion of ugliness, hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language...everything. Unnatural, broken, blasted; the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious.

Children are not meant to be studied, but enjoyed. Only by studying to be pleased do we understand them.

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.