Wilfred Owen Quotes

He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark, And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey, Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn, Voices of play and pleasures after day, Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him… He thought he’d better join. He wonders […]

What passing bells for these that die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

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