Above All I Am Not Concerned With

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

Never Fear: Thank Home, And Poetry, And The Force Behind Both.

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

A Poem Does Not Grow By Jerks. As Trees In Spring Produce A New Ring Of Tissue, So Does Every Poet Put Forth A Fresh Outlay Of Stuff At The Same Season.

The English Say, Yours Truly, And Mean It. The Italians Say, I Kiss Your Feet, And Mean, I Kick Your Head.