Quotes from Wilfred Owen

If I have got to be a soldier, I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable.

Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do.

Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander, Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.

Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout I see your lights! But ours had long died out.

These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished. Memory fingers in their hair of murders Multitudinous murders they once witnessed. Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander, Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.

Now begin Famines of thought and feeling.

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

Voices of boys were by the river-side. Sleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad.

Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.

But they who love the greater love Lay down their life; they do not hate.

The dust that fell unnoted as a dew, Wrapped the dead city's face like mummy-cloth

But let my death be memoried on this disc. Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed. But let thy heart-beat kiss it night and day, Until the name grow vague and wear away.

There breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray As men's are, dead.

Shall they return to beating of great bells In wild train-loads? A few, a few, too few for drums and yells, May creep back, silent, to village wells, Up half-known roads.

Move him into the sun— Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields half-sown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know

You would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory the old lie: Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori.

I went hunting wild After the wildest beauty in the world Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair But mocks the steady running of the hour And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here

move him into the sun- gently its touch awoke him once

I am the enemy you killed, my friend I knew you in this dark, for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed I parried, but my hands were loath and cold Let us sleep now.

All sounds have been as music to my listening

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

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. Yet these elegies are to this generation in no sense consolatory. They may be to the next. All a poet can do today is to warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful.

Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean, I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather. 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.

Do they matter?—those dreams from the pit?... You can drink and forget and be glad, And people won't say that you're mad; For they'll know you've fought for your country And no one will worry a bit.