These Men Are Worth Your Tears. You

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

Children Are Not Meant To Be Studied, But Enjoyed. Only By Studying To Be Pleased Do We Understand Them.

A Poem Does Not Grow By Jerks. As Trees In Spring Produce A New Ring Of Tissue, So Does Every Poet Put Forth A Fresh Outlay Of Stuff At The Same Season.

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

Do You Know What Would Hold Me Together On A Battlefield? The Sense That I Was Perpetuating The Language In Which Keats And The Rest Of Them Wrote!