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

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

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

Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.

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

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.