Be Bullied, Be Outraged, By Killed, But

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.

Sweet And Fitting It Is To Die For The Fatherland.

Futility Move Him Into The Sun - Gently Its Touch Awoke Him Once, At Home, Whispering Of Fields Unsown. Always It Woke Him, Even In France, Until This Morning And This Snow. If Anything Might Rouse Him Now The Kind Old Sun Will Know. Think How It Wakes The Seeds, - Woke, Once, The Clays Of A Cold Star. Are Limbs, So Dear-achieved, Are Sides, Full-nerved -still Warm -too Hard To Stir? Was It For This The Clay Grew Tall? -o What Made Fatuous Sunbeams Toil To Break Earth's Sleep At All?

When I Begin To Eliminate From The List All Those Professions Which Are Impossible From A Financial Point Of View And Then Those Which I Feel Disinclined To-it Leaves Nothing

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