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.
Wilfred OwenCourage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Wilfred OwenEscape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
Wilfred Owen