No-man's land under snow is like the face of the moon: chaotic, crater ridden, uninhabitable, awful, the abode of madness.

All a poet can do today is warn.

Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.

I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's

The war affects me less than it ought. But I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making dole over the slaughter.

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

I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. Yet these elegies are to this generation in no sense conciliatory. They may be to the next. All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful.