All A Poet Can Do Today Is

Be Bullied, Be Outraged, By Killed, But Do Not Kill.

Was It For This The Clay Grew Tall? O What Made Fatuous Sunbeams Toil To Break Earth's Sleep At All?

Flying Is The Only Active Profession I Could Ever Continue With Enthusiasm After The War.

Happy Are Men Who Yet Before They Are Killed Can Let Their Veins Run Cold.

And Some Cease Feeling Even Themselves Or For Themselves. Dullness Best Solves The Tease And Doubt Of Shelling