Not A Softness Anywhere About Me, Only

Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And Horses All Bent Upon Killing, Because Their "of Courses" Are Not Quite The Same.

My Heart Is Tuned To Sorrow, And The Strings Vibrate Most Readily To Minor Chords, Searching And Sad; My Mind Is Stuffed With Words Which Voice The Passion And The Ache Of Things: Illusions Beating With Their Baffled Wings Against The Walls Of Circumstance.

I Know That A Creed Is The Shell Of A Lie.

When I Go Away From You The World Beats Dead Like A Slackened Drum.

If What We Worship Fail Us, Still The Fire Burns On, And It Is Much To Have Believed.