All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.

This book is not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War. Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.

When I begin to eliminate from the list all those professions which are impossible from a financial point of view and then those which I feel disinclined to-it leaves nothing

I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law

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

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