My Subject Is War, And The Pity

Those Who, Like The Beasts, Have No Such Hope, Pass Their Old Age Shrouded With An Inward Gloom.

What Passing-bells For These Who Die As Cattle? Only The Monstrous Anger Of The Guns.

As Bronze May Be Much Beautified By Lying In The Dark Damp Soil, So Men Who Fade In Dust Of Warfare Fade Fairer, And Sorrow Blooms Their Soul.

I Am Only Conscious Of Any Satisfaction In Scientific Reading Or Thinking When It Rounds Off Into A Poetical Generality And Vagueness.

Courage Was Mine, And I Had Mystery, Wisdom Was Mine, And I Had Mastery: To Miss The March Of This Retreating World Into Vain Citadels That Are Not Walled.