His wet white face and miserable eyesBrought nurses to him more than groans and sighs:But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fellHis troubled voice: he did the business well.(First verse of Died of Wounds)

Let my soul, a shining tree, Silver branches lift towards thee, Where on a hallowed winter's night The clear-eyed angels may alight.

The dead...are more real than the living because they are complete.

Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin they think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives.

I am a soldier, convinced that I am acting on behalf of soldiers.

I didn't want to die - not before I'd finished reading The Return of the Native anyhow.

Who's this—alone with stone and sky? It's only my old dog and I— It's only him; it's only me; Alone with stone and grass and tree. What share we most—we two together? Smells, and awareness of the weather. What is it makes us more than dust? My trust in him; in me his trust.