What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Do you know what would hold me together on a battlefield? The sense that I was perpetuating the language in which Keats and the rest of them wrote!
I, too, saw God through mud
All the poet can do today is warn. That is why true Poets must be truthful.
All I ask is to be held above the barren wastes of want.
Walking abroad, one is the admiration of all little boys, and meets an approving glance from every eye of elderly.