The Old Lie:dulce Et Decorum Est Pro

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

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.

Heart, You Were Never Hot Nor Large, Nor Full Like Hearts Made Great With Shot

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

I Am Not Concerned With Poetry. My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War. The Poetry Is In The Pity. Yet These Elegies Are To This Generation In No Sense Conciliatory. They May Be To The Next. All A Poet Can Do Today Is Warn. That Is Why The True Poets Must Be Truthful.