Whatever Mourns When Many Leave These Shores:

Was It For This The Clay Grew Tall?

Was It For This The Clay Grew Tall? O What Made Fatuous Sunbeams Toil To Break Earth's Sleep At All?

Then, When Much Blood Had Clogged Their Chariot-wheels I Would Go Up And Wash Them From Sweet Wells, Even With Truths That Lie Too Deep For Taint. I Would Have Poured My Spirit Without Stint But Not Through Wounds; Not On The Cess Of War.

And Some Cease Feeling Even Themselves Or For Themselves. Dullness Best Solves The Tease And Doubt Of Shelling

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