The war effects me less than it ought. I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making dole… — 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
“These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished. Memory fingers in their hair of murders Multitudinous murders they once witnessed. Wading… — 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
I have perceived much beauty In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; Heard music in the silentness of duty; Found… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
“ Dulce Et Decorum Est Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. Yet… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
“It seemed that out of the battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which Titanic wars… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
“Oh, Death was never enemy of ours! We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum. No soldier's paid to kick… — wilfred owen Copy Share Image
The war affects me less than it ought. But I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
It seemed that out of battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which titanic wars had… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
I thought of all that worked dark pits Of war, and died Digging the rock where Death reputes Peace lies indeed. — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot — 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
This book is not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds, or… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
I tried to peg out soldierly,--no use! One dies of war like any old disease. — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold. — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
No-man's land under snow is like the face of the moon: chaotic, crater ridden, uninhabitable, awful, the abode of madness. — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Flying is the only active profession I would ever continue with enthusiasm after the War. — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
“What passing bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifle's rapid rattle… — Wilfred Owen Copy Share Image
Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War. — 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
