I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law
Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
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.
All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
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.