I Am Only Conscious Of Any Satisfaction

Above All I Am Not Concerned With Poetry. My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War. The Poetry Is In The Pity.

The War Affects Me Less Than It Ought. But I Can Do No Service To Anybody By Agitating For News Or Making Dole Over The Slaughter.

What Passing-bells For These Who Die As Cattle? Only The Monstrous Anger Of The Guns.

The Old Lie:dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori.

A Poem Does Not Grow By Jerks. As Trees In Spring Produce A New Ring Of Tissue, So Does Every Poet Put Forth A Fresh Outlay Of Stuff At The Same Season.