All The Poet Can Do Today Is

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.

And By His Smile, I Knew That Sullen Hall, By His Dead Smile I Knew We Stood In Hell.

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

The Pallor Of Girls' Brows Shall Be Their Pall; Their Flowers The Tenderness Of Patient Minds, And Each Slow Dusk A Drawing-down Of Blinds.

Was It For This The Clay Grew Tall?