So Secretly, Like Wrongs Hushed-up, They Went.

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

Then, When Much Blood Had Clogged Their Chariot-wheels I Would Go Up And Wash Them From Sweet Wells, Even With Truths That Lie Too Deep For Taint. I Would Have Poured My Spirit Without Stint But Not Through Wounds; Not On The Cess Of War.

I, Too, Saw God Through Mud - The Mud That Cracked On Cheeks When Wretches Smiled. War Brought More Glory To Their Eyes Than Blood, And Gave Their Laughs More Glee Than Shakes A Child.

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.

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