Soldiers May Grow A Soul When Turned

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

All The Poet Can Do Today Is Warn. That Is Why True Poets Must Be Truthful.

Red Lips Are Not So Red As The Stained Stones Kissed By The English Dead.

All A Poet Can Do Today Is Warn.

The Centuries Will Burn Rich Loads With Which We Groaned, Whose Warmth Shall Lull Their Dreaming Lids, While Songs Are Crooned: But They Will Not Dream Of Us Poor Lads, Left In The Ground.