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.

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.

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

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

I, too, saw God through mud

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

Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.