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

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

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.

Children are not meant to be studied, but enjoyed. Only by studying to be pleased do we understand them.

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

Do you know what would hold me together on a battlefield? The sense that I was perpetuating the language in which Keats and the rest of them wrote!

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