I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. Yet these elegies are to this generation in no sense conciliatory. They may be to the next. All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful.

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

I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears; and caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts; and buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts; and rusted every bayonet with His tears.

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

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

As bronze may be much beautified by lying in the dark damp soil, so men who fade in dust of warfare fade fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.

These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.