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.

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

I, too, saw God through mud

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

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.

A Poem does not grow by jerks. As trees in Spring produce a new ring of tissue, so does every poet put forth a fresh outlay of stuff at the same season.

As bronze may be much beautified by lying in the dark damp soil, so men who fade in dust of warfare fade fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.