Happy Are Men Who Yet Before They

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.

Whatever Mourns When Many Leave These Shores: Whatever Shares The Eternal Reciprocity Of Tears.

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.

It Seemed That Out Of Battle I Escaped Down Some Profound Dull Tunnel, Long Since Scooped Through Granites Which Titanic Wars Had Groined.

Soldiers May Grow A Soul When Turned To Fronds, But Here The Thing's Best Left At Home With Friends.