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

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

Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.

All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.

The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

Futility Move him into the sun - Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields unsown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know. Think how it wakes the seeds, - Woke, once, the clays of a cold star. Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides, Full-nerved -still warm -too hard to stir? Was it for this the clay grew tall? -O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all?

Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.