All a poet can do today is warn.

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

And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

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

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory. The old lie: It is sweet and fitting that you should die for your country.

My subject is war, and the pity of war.

All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.