For By My Glee Might Many Men

All Theological Lore Is Becoming Distasteful To Me.

So Secretly, Like Wrongs Hushed-up, They Went.

My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War.

Red Lips Are Not So Red As The Stained Stones Kissed By The English Dead.

Dead Men May Envy Living Mites In Cheese, Or Good Germs Even. Microbes Have Their Joys, And Subdivide, And Never Come To Death.