Was It For This The Clay Grew

As Bronze May Be Much Beautified By Lying In The Dark Damp Soil, So Men Who Fade In Dust Of Warfare Fade Fairer, And Sorrow Blooms Their Soul.

Was It For This The Clay Grew Tall?

I Thought Of All That Worked Dark Pits Of War, And Died Digging The Rock Where Death Reputes Peace Lies Indeed.

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

My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War.