Was It For This The Clay Grew

The Pallor Of Girls' Brows Shall Be Their Pall; Their Flowers The Tenderness Of Patient Minds, And Each Slow Dusk A Drawing-down Of Blinds.

If I Have To Be A Soldier I Must Be A Good One, Anything Else Is Unthinkable

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

Was It For This The Clay Grew Tall?

Children Are Not Meant To Be Studied, But Enjoyed. Only By Studying To Be Pleased Do We Understand Them.