“ Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knockkneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, bloodshod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of disappointed shells that dropped behind. GAS! Gas! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the frothcorrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 2.9K
“ Consummation is consumption We cannot consummate our bliss and not consume All joys are cakes and vanish in eating All bliss is sugar's melting in the mouth ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 3.4K
“ Dulce Et Decorum Est Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knockkneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, bloodshod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of disappointed shells that dropped behind. GAS! Gas! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the frothcorrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 894
“ Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knockkneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots But limped on, bloodshod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of disappointed shells that dropped behind. GAS! Gas! Quick, boys! An ecstasy of fumbling, Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And floundering like a man in fire or lime. Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin; If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the frothcorrupted lungs, Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 465
“ Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 588
“ The universal pervasion of ugliness, hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language...everything. Unnatural, broken, blasted; the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 3.3K
“ These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 2.4K
“ 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. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 3.3K
“ I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 632
“ What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 639
“ All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 2K
“ I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 3.3K
“ What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 1.6K
“ The isolation from any whose interests are the same as mine, the constant, inevitable mixing with persons whose influence will tend in the opposite direction-this is a serious drawback. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 1.5K
“ I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 837
“ I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 3.6K
“ I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 353
“ What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 163
“ Now rather thank I God there is no riskOf gravers scoring it with florid screed.Let my inscription be this soldier's disc.Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.But may thy heart-beat kiss it, night and day,Until the name grow blurred and fade away. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 231
“ Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose. ”
- Wilfred Owen- Copy
- 2.9K
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