|Born||18 March 1893
Oswestry, Shropshire, England
|Died||4 November 1918
Sambreâ€“Oise Canal, France
|Period||World War I|
Do you know what would hold me together on a battlefield? The sense that I was perpetuating the language in which Keats and the rest of them wrote!
Flying is the only active profession I would ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.
I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law.
I am only conscious of any satisfaction in Scientific Reading or thinking when it rounds off into a poetical generality and vagueness.
When I begin to eliminate from the list all those professions which are impossible from a financial point of view and then those which I feel disinclined to – it leaves nothing.
Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.
If I have got to be a soldier, I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable.
I don't ask myself, is the life congenial to me? But, am I fitted for, am I called to, the Ministry?
I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's.
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.
The war effects me less than it ought. I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making dole over the slaughter.
The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.
After all my years of playing soldiers, and then of reading History, I have almost a mania to be in the East, to see fighting, and to serve.