Was It For This The Clay Grew

All The Poet Can Do Today Is Warn. That Is Why True Poets Must Be Truthful.

And Death Fell With Me, Like A Deepening Moan. And He, Picking A Manner Of Worm, Which Half Had Hid Its Bruises In The Earth, But Crawled No Further, Showed Me Its Feet, The Feet Of Many Men, And The Fresh-severed Head Of It, My Head.

My Friend, You Would Not Tell With Such High Zest To Children Ardent For Some Desperate Glory. The Old Lie: It Is Sweet And Fitting That You Should Die For Your Country.

If I Have To Be A Soldier I Must Be A Good One, Anything Else Is Unthinkable

I Find Purer Philosophy In A Poem Than In A Conclusion Of Geometry, A Chemical Analysis, Or A Physical Law