Was It For This The Clay Grew

I Tried To Peg Out Soldierly,--no Use! One Dies Of War Like Any Old Disease.

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.

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

Flying Is The Only Active Profession I Could Ever Continue With Enthusiasm After The War.

All A Poet Can Do Today Is Warn.