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.
Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Numbers of the old people cannot read. Those who can seldom do
I was a boy when I first realized that the fullest life liveable was a Poet's
Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.
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.