All The Poet Can Do Today Is

Soldiers May Grow A Soul When Turned To Fronds, But Here The Thing's Best Left At Home With Friends.

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.

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

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

What Passing-bells For These Who Die As Cattle? Only The Monstrous Anger Of The Guns.