For By My Glee Might Many Men

Children Are Not Meant To Be Studied, But Enjoyed. Only By Studying To Be Pleased Do We Understand Them.

The War Affects Me Less Than It Ought. But I Can Do No Service To Anybody By Agitating For News Or Making Dole Over The Slaughter.

Above All I Am Not Concerned With Poetry. My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War. The Poetry Is In The Pity.

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 Have Perceived Much Beauty In The Hoarse Oaths That Kept Our Courage Straight; Heard Music In The Silentness Of Duty; Found Peace Where Shell-storms Spouted Reddest Spate.