Quotes from Wilfred Owen

With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed, And truthfully wrote the Mother, Tim died smiling.

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.

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.

Little I'd ever teach a son, but hitting, Shooting, war, hunting, all the arts of hurting.

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.

All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful.

I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness.

Be bullied, be outraged, be killed, but do not kill.

Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth All death will he annul, all tears assuage? Or fill these void veins full again with youth And wash with an immortal water age?

She is elegant rather than belle.

Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to death.

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