The Old Happiness Is Unreturning. Boy's Griefs

I Find Purer Philosophy In A Poem Than In A Conclusion Of Geometry, A Chemical Analysis, Or A Physical Law

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.

The Centuries Will Burn Rich Loads With Which We Groaned, Whose Warmth Shall Lull Their Dreaming Lids, While Songs Are Crooned: But They Will Not Dream Of Us Poor Lads, Left In The Ground.

All Theological Lore Is Becoming Distasteful To Me.

If I Have To Be A Soldier I Must Be A Good One, Anything Else Is Unthinkable