Was It For This The Clay Grew

My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War.

All Theological Lore Is Becoming Distasteful To Me.

Red Lips Are Not So Red As The Stained Stones Kissed By The English Dead.

All The Poet Can Do Today Is Warn. That Is Why True Poets Must Be Truthful.

Strange Friend,' I Said,'here Is No Cause To Mourn.' 'none,'said The Other,'save The Undone Years, The Hopelessness.whatever Hope Is Yours Was My Life Also; I Went Hunting Wild After The Wildest Beauty In The World.