I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
We were marooned in a frozen desert. There was not a sign of life on the horizon and a thousand signs of… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
I don't ask myself, is the life congenial to me? But, am I fitted for, am I called to, the Ministry? — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
The marvel is that we did not all die of cold. As a matter of fact, only one of my party actually… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
The Young Soldier It is not death Without hereafter To one in dearth Of life and its laughter, Nor the sweet murder… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth All death will he annul, all tears assuage? Or fill these void veins full… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
“And you have fixed my life — however short. You did not light me: I was always a mad comet; but you… — 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
