Fact Is Not Truth, But A Poet

She Told Me That All The Girls In Annezin Prayed Every Night For The War To End And For The English To Go Away As Soon As Their Money Was Spent. She Said That The Clause About The Money Was Always Repeated In Case God Should Miss It.

If I Were A Young Man With My Bones Full Of Marrow, Oh, If I Were A Bold Young Man Straight As An Arrow, I'd Store Up No Virtue For Heaven's Distant Plain, I'd Live At Ease As I Did Please And Sin Once Again.

I Do Not Love The Sabbath, The Soapsuds And The Starch, The Troops Of Solemn People Who To Salvation March. I Take My Book, I Take My Stick On The Sabbath Day, In Woody Nooks And Valleys I Hide Myself Away. To Ponder There In Quiet God's Universal Plan, Resolved That Church And Sabbath Were Never Made For Man.

The Art Of Poetry Consists In Taking The Poem Through Draft After Draft, Without Losing Its Inspirational Magic: He Removes Everything Irrelevant Or Distracting, And Tightens Up What Is Left. Lazy Poets Never Carry Their Early Drafts Far Enough: Some Even Believe That Virtue Lies In The Original Doodle Scrawled On The Back Of An Envelope.

Kaisers And Czars Will Strut The Stage Once More With Pomp And Greed And Rage; Courtly Ministers Will Stop At Home And Fight To The Last Drop; By The Million Men Will Die In Some New Horrible Agony.