I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's

After all my years of playing soldiers, and then of reading History, I have almost a mania to be in the East, to see fighting, and to serve.

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

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.

The Young Soldier It is not death Without hereafter To one in dearth Of life and its laughter, Nor the sweet murder Dealt slow and even Unto the martyr Smiling at heaven: It is the smile Faint as a (waning) myth, Faint, and exceeding small On a boy's murdered mouth.

All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.

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