You Smug-faced Crowds With Kindling Eye Who

Across The Land A Faint Blue Veil Of Mist Seems Hung; The Woods Wear Yet Arrayment Sober Till Frost Shall Make Them Flame; Silent And Whist The Drooping Cherry Orchards Of October Like Mournful Pennons Hang Their Shriveling Leaves Russet And Orange: All Things Now Decay; Long Since Ye Garnered In Your Autumn Sheaves, And Sad The Robins Pipe At Set Of Day.

I Believe That The Purpose For Which I And My Fellow Soldiers Entered Upon This War Should Have Been So Clearly Stated As To Have Made It Impossible To Change Them, And That, Had This Been Done, The Objects Which Actuated Us Would Now Be Attainable By Negotiation.

The Dead...are More Real Than The Living Because They Are Complete.

In The Years 1910 And 1911 I Had 51 Innings With 10 Not Outs And An Average Of 19. This I Consider A Creditable Record For A Poet.

I Am Not Protesting Against The Conduct Of The War, But Against The Political Errors And Insincerities For Which The Fighting Men Are Being Sacrificed.