So Secretly, Like Wrongs Hushed-up, They Went.

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

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

My Soul's A Little Grief, Grappling Your Chest, To Climb Your Throat On Sobs; Easily Chased On Other Sighs And Wiped By Fresher Winds.

If I Have To Be A Soldier I Must Be A Good One, Anything Else Is Unthinkable

Happy Are Men Who Yet Before They Are Killed Can Let Their Veins Run Cold.