Do you know what would hold me together on a battlefield? The sense that I was perpetuating the language in which Keats and the rest of them wrote!

Courage 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.

Walking abroad, one is the admiration of all little boys, and meets an approving glance from every eye of elderly.

All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.

Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

If I have to be a soldier I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable

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