Wilfred Owen Quotes

And some cease feeling Even themselves or for themselves. Dullness best solves The tease and doubt of shelling,
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918), British poet. Insensibility (l. 12-15). . . Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse, The. Philip Larkin, ed. (1973) Oxford University Press.
(12) (3)
—Thus their hands are plucking at each other; Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging; Snatching after us who smote them, brother, Pawing us who dealt them war and madness.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918), British poet. Mental Cases (l. 25-28). . . Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, The. Richard Ellmann and Robert O'Clair, eds. (2d ed., 1988) W. W. Norton & Company.
(14) (5)
—These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished Memory fingers in their hair of murders, Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918), British poet. Mental Cases (l. 10-12). . . Norton Anthology of Modern Poetry, The. Richard Ellmann and Robert O'Clair, eds. (2d ed., 1988) W. W. Norton & Company.
(10) (5)
The centuries will burn rich loads With which we groaned, Whose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids, While songs are crooned: But they will not dream of us poor lads, Left in the ground.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918), British poet. Miners (l. 29-34). . . Oxford Book of Welsh Verse in English, The. Gwyn Jones, comp. (1977) Oxford University Press.
(14) (2)
I thought of all that worked dark pits Of war, and died Digging the rock where Death reputes Peace lies indeed.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918), British poet. Miners (l. 21-24). . . Oxford Book of Welsh Verse in English, The. Gwyn Jones, comp. (1977) Oxford University Press.
(12) (2)
I am the enemy you killed, my friend. I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed. I parried; but my hands were loath and cold. Let us sleep now.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918), British poet. Strange Meeting (l. 40-44). . . Oxford Anthology of English Literature, The, Vols. I-II. Frank Kermode and John Hollander, general eds. (1973) Oxford University Press (Also published as six paperback vols.: Medieval English Literature, J. B. Trapp, ed.; The Literature of Renaissance England, John Hollander and Frank Kermode, eds.; The Restoration and the Eighteenth Century, Martin Price, ed.; Romantic Poetry and Prose, Harold Bloom and Lionel Trilling, eds.; Victorian Prose and Poetry, Lionel Trilling and Harold Bloom, eds.; Modern British Literature, Frank Kermode and John Hollander, eds.).
(14) (3)
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells, May creep back, silent, to village wells Up half-known roads.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918), British poet. The Send-off (l. 18-20). . . Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse, The. Philip Larkin, ed. (1973) Oxford University Press.
(12) (3)
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.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918), British poet. The Show (l. 25-29). . . Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse, The. Philip Larkin, ed. (1973) Oxford University Press.
(10) (4)
The pallor of girl's brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918), British poet. Anthem for Doomed Youth (l. 12-14). . . Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse, The. Philip Larkin, ed. (1973) Oxford University Press.
(11) (4)
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Wilfred Owen (1893-1918), British poet. Anthem for Doomed Youth (l. 1-2). . . Oxford Book of Twentieth-Century English Verse, The. Philip Larkin, ed. (1973) Oxford University Press.
(17) (3)