This book is not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them. Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War. Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

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

These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.

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

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.

The old happiness is unreturning. Boy's griefs are not so grievous as youth's yearning. Boys have no sadness sadder than our hope.

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