Quotes by Wilfred Owen

Wilfred Owen

A Poem does not grow by jerks. As trees in Spring produce a new ring of tissue, so does every poet put forth a fresh outlay of stuff at the same season.

Air

Spring

Tree

Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

Pity

Poetry Is

War

All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.

Barren

Want

Waste

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

Poet

Today

Truth

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

Ambition

Funny

Numbers

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.

Death

Feet

Men

As bronze may be much beautified by lying in the dark damp soil, so men who fade in dust of warfare fade fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.

Dark

Lying

Men

Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.

Mastery

Missing

World

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

Death

Envy

Men

Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.

Eye

Secret

Way

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Air

Ambition

Analysis

Asks

Barren

Beauty

Clay

Dark

Death

Disease

Enthusiasm

Envy

Eye

Feet

Flying

Force

Funny

Grief

Gun

Home

Horizon

Jesus

Kindness

Latin

Law

Lying

Mastery

Men

Merriment

Ministry

Missing

Moon

Morning

Mud

Never Fear

News

Numbers

Old People

Party

People

Philosophy

Pity

Poet

Poetry Is

Reciprocity

Saws

Secret

Slaughter

Sleep

The Future Blueprint

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Quotes by Wilfred Owen

Wilfred Owen

A Poem does not grow by jerks. As trees in Spring produce a new ring of tissue, so does every poet put forth a fresh outlay of stuff at the same season.

Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.

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

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

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.

As bronze may be much beautified by lying in the dark damp soil, so men who fade in dust of warfare fade fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.

Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.

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

Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.

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