So Secretly, Like Wrongs Hushed-up, They Went.

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.

Never Fear: Thank Home, And Poetry, And The Force Behind Both.

The English Say, Yours Truly, And Mean It. The Italians Say, I Kiss Your Feet, And Mean, I Kick Your Head.

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

Walking Abroad, One Is The Admiration Of All Little Boys, And Meets An Approving Glance From Every Eye Of Elderly.