I Could No More Define Poetry Than

I Sought Them Far And Found Them, The Sure, The Straight, The Brave, The Hearts I Lost My Own To, The Souls I Could Not Save They Braced Their Belts About Them, They Crossed In Ships The Sea, They Sought And Found Six Feet Of Ground, And There They Died For Me.

Look Not In My Eyes, For Fear They Mirror True The Sight I See, And There You Find Your Face Too Clear And Love It And Be Lost Like Me.

These, In The Day When Heaven Was Falling, The Hour When Earth's Foundations Fled, Followed Their Mercenary Calling And Took Their Wages And Are Dead. The British Regulars Who Made The Retreat From Mons, Beginning August 24, 1914.

Ale, Man, Ale's The Stuff To Drink For Fellows Whom It Hurts To Think.

Three Minutes Thought Would Suffice To Find This Out; But Thought Is Irksome And Three Minutes Is A Long Time.