The old happiness is unreturning. Boy's griefs are not so grievous as youth's yearning. Boys have no sadness sadder than our hope.

Winter Song The browns, the olives, and the yellows died, And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide, And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed, Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed. From off your face, into the winds of winter, The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing; But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter, When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing, And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.

The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.

The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.

Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.

The war affects me less than it ought. But I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making dole over the slaughter.

My subject is war, and the pity of war.