My friend, you would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory. The old lie: It is sweet and fitting that you should die for your country.

Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.

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.