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

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

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

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.

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

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

Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.