It Seemed That Out Of Battle I

Red Lips Are Not So Red As The Stained Stones Kissed By The English Dead.

This Book Is Not About Heroes. English Poetry Is Not Yet Fit To Speak Of Them. Nor Is It About Deeds, Or Lands, Nor Anything About Glory, Honour, Might, Majesty, Dominion, Or Power, Except War. Above All I Am Not Concerned With Poetry. My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War. The Poetry Is In The Pity.

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.

Heart, You Were Never Hot Nor Large, Nor Full Like Hearts Made Great With Shot

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