All a poet can do today is warn.

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

Walking abroad, one is the admiration of all little boys, and meets an approving glance from every eye of elderly.

My subject is war, and the pity of war.

Winter Song The browns, the olives, and the yellows died, And were swept up to heaven; where they glowed Each dawn and set of sun till Christmastide, And when the land lay pale for them, pale-snowed, Fell back, and down the snow-drifts flamed and flowed. From off your face, into the winds of winter, The sun-brown and the summer-gold are blowing; But they shall gleam with spiritual glinter, When paler beauty on your brows falls snowing, And through those snows my looks shall be soft-going.

I find purer philosophy in a Poem than in a Conclusion of Geometry, a chemical analysis, or a physical law

Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.