Sweet And Fitting It Is To Die

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

As Bronze May Be Much Beautified By Lying In The Dark Damp Soil, So Men Who Fade In Dust Of Warfare Fade Fairer, And Sorrow Blooms Their Soul.

I Am Not Concerned With Poetry. My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War. The Poetry Is In The Pity. Yet These Elegies Are To This Generation In No Sense Conciliatory. They May Be To The Next. All A Poet Can Do Today Is Warn. That Is Why The True Poets Must Be Truthful.

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

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