Be Bullied, Be Outraged, By Killed, But

Soldiers May Grow A Soul When Turned To Fronds, But Here The Thing's Best Left At Home With Friends.

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

It Seemed That Out Of Battle I Escaped Down Some Profound Dull Tunnel, Long Since Scooped Through Granites Which Titanic Wars Had Groined.

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

And Death Fell With Me, Like A Deepening Moan. And He, Picking A Manner Of Worm, Which Half Had Hid Its Bruises In The Earth, But Crawled No Further, Showed Me Its Feet, The Feet Of Many Men, And The Fresh-severed Head Of It, My Head.