Be bullied, be outraged, by killed, but do not kill.

And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.

All a poet can do today is warn.

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

Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do

If I have to be a soldier I must be a good one, anything else is unthinkable

Futility Move him into the sun - Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields unsown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. If anything might rouse him now The kind old sun will know. Think how it wakes the seeds, - Woke, once, the clays of a cold star. Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides, Full-nerved -still warm -too hard to stir? Was it for this the clay grew tall? -O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all?