I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law.
Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
The universal pervasion of ugliness, hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language…everything. Unnatural, broken, blasted; the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious.