“But let my death be memoried on this disc.Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.But let thy heart-beat kiss it night and day,Until the name grow vague and wear away.”

“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 universal pervasion of ugliness, hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language...everything. Unnatural, broken, blasted; the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious.”

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

“Shall they return to beating of great bellsIn wild train-loads?A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,May creep back, silent, to village wells,Up half-known roads.”

“If you could hear, at every jolt, the bloodCome gargling from the froth-corrupted lungsObscene as cancer, bitter as the cudOf vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,My friend, you would not tell with such high zestTo children ardent for some desperate gloryThat old lie: Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori.”

“Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum.No soldier's paid to kick against His powers.We laughed, — knowing that better men would come,And greater wars: when each proud fighter bragsHe wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags.”