Was It For This The Clay Grew

All A Poet Can Do Today Is Warn.

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

I Was A Boy When I First Realized That The Fullest Life Liveable Was A Poet's

The Young Soldier It Is Not Death Without Hereafter To One In Dearth Of Life And Its Laughter, Nor The Sweet Murder Dealt Slow And Even Unto The Martyr Smiling At Heaven: It Is The Smile Faint As A (waning) Myth, Faint, And Exceeding Small On A Boy's Murdered Mouth.

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