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… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
The war effects me less than it ought. I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making dole over the… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate. — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell. — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Walking abroad, one is the admiration of all little boys, and meets an approving glance from every eye of elderly. — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Those who, like the beasts, have no such Hope, pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom. — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head. — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose. — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
“These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished. Memory fingers in their hair of murders Multitudinous murders they once witnessed. Wading sloughs of… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Was it for this the clay grew tall? O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all? — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
And some cease feeling Even themselves or for themselves. Dullness best solves The tease and doubt of shelling — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
