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Wilfred Owen Quotes


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Wilfred Owen
March 18, 1893 - November 4, 1918
Nationality: English
Category: Soldier
Subcategory: English Soldier

All a poet can do today is warn.

   

If I have got to be a soldier, I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable.

   

I don't ask myself, is the life congenial to me? But, am I fitted for, am I called to, the Ministry?

   

I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's.

   

Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do.

   

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.

   

The war effects me less than it ought. I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making dole over the slaughter.

   

The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.

   

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

   

Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.

   

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

   

Those who have no hope pass their old age shrouded with an inward gloom.

   

Flying is the only active profession I would ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.

   

After all my years of playing soldiers, and then of reading History, I have almost a mania to be in the East, to see fighting, and to serve.

   

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

   

She is elegant rather than belle.

   

When I begin to eliminate from the list all those professions which are impossible from a financial point of view and then those which I feel disinclined to-it leaves nothing.

   

I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law.

   

My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

   

Do you know what would hold me together on a battlefield? The sense that I was perpetuating the language in which Keats and the rest of them wrote!

   

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