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

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

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

The Young Soldier It is not death Without hereafter To one in dearth Of life and its laughter, Nor the sweet murder Dealt slow and even Unto the martyr Smiling at heaven: It is the smile Faint as a (waning) myth, Faint, and exceeding small On a boy's murdered mouth.

Never fear: Thank Home, and Poetry, and the Force behind both.

Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.

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