The War Affects Me Less Than It

I, Too, Saw God Through Mud

Happy Are Men Who Yet Before They Are Killed Can Let Their Veins Run Cold.

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 Centuries Will Burn Rich Loads With Which We Groaned, Whose Warmth Shall Lull Their Dreaming Lids, While Songs Are Crooned: But They Will Not Dream Of Us Poor Lads, Left In The Ground.

All I Ask Is To Be Held Above The Barren Wastes Of Want.