Wilfred Owen Quotes About War
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I, too, saw God through mud
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I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. Yet these elegies are to this generation in no sense conciliatory. They may be to the next. All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful.
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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 concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.
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I thought of all that worked dark pits Of war, and died Digging the rock where Death reputes Peace lies indeed.
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It seemed that out of battle I escaped Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
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The marvel is that we did not all die of cold. As a matter of fact, only one of my party actually froze to death before he could be got back, but I am not able to tell how many have ended up in hospital. We were marooned in a frozen desert. There was not a sign of life on the horizon and a thousand signs of death.
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And some cease feeling Even themselves or for themselves. Dullness best solves The tease and doubt of shelling
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My subject is war, and the pity of war.
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Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.
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Heart, you were never hot Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot
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I tried to peg out soldierly,--no use! One dies of war like any old disease.
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Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.
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The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
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I, too, saw God through mud - The mud that cracked on cheeks when wretches smiled. War brought more glory to their eyes than blood, And gave their laughs more glee than shakes a child.
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What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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Happy are men who yet before they are killed Can let their veins run cold.
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Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
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The war affects me less than it ought. But I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making dole over the slaughter.
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No-man's land under snow is like the face of the moon: chaotic, crater ridden, uninhabitable, awful, the abode of madness.
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Walking abroad, one is the admiration of all little boys, and meets an approving glance from every eye of elderly.
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I have perceived much beauty In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; Heard music in the silentness of duty; Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.
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