Heart, You Were Never Hot Nor Large,

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

What Passing-bells For These Who Die As Cattle? Only The Monstrous Anger Of The Guns.

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.

I Am Not Concerned With Poetry. My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War. The Poetry Is In The Pity. Yet These Elegies Are To This Generation In No Sense Conciliatory. They May Be To The Next. All A Poet Can Do Today Is Warn. That Is Why The True Poets Must Be Truthful.

I Was A Boy When I First Realized That The Fullest Life Liveable Was A Poet's