Rapture's self is three parts sorrow.
On the neck of the young man sparkles no gem so gracious as enterprise. Youth condemns; maturity condones.
Even pain pricks to livelier living.
How hard, how desperately hard, is the way of the experimenter in art!
Hate is ravening vulture beaks descending on a place of skulls.
This is war: Boys flung into a breach Like shoveled earth; And old men, Broken, Driving rapidly before crowds of people In a glitter of silly decorations. Behind the boys And the old men, Life weeps, And shreds her garments To the blowing winds.