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

“There breasts were stuck all white with wreath and sprayAs men's are, dead.”

“The dust that fell unnoted as a dew,Wrapped the dead city's face like mummy-cloth”

“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“But the old man would not so, but slew his son,And half the seed of Europe, one by one.”