Sweet And Fitting It Is To Die

Flying Is The Only Active Profession I Could Ever Continue With Enthusiasm After The War.

The Old Happiness Is Unreturning. Boy's Griefs Are Not So Grievous As Youth's Yearning. Boys Have No Sadness Sadder Than Our Hope.

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.

Above All I Am Not Concerned With Poetry. My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War. The Poetry Is In The Pity.

I Tried To Peg Out Soldierly,--no Use! One Dies Of War Like Any Old Disease.