I don't ask myself, is the life congenial to me? But, am I fitted for, am I called to, the Ministry?

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

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

Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.

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

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

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.