Was It For This The Clay Grew

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.

Those Who, Like The Beasts, Have No Such Hope, Pass Their Old Age Shrouded With An Inward Gloom.

I Am Only Conscious Of Any Satisfaction In Scientific Reading Or Thinking When It Rounds Off Into A Poetical Generality And Vagueness.

I, Too, Saw God Through Mud

And By His Smile, I Knew That Sullen Hall, By His Dead Smile I Knew We Stood In Hell.