Whatever Mourns When Many Leave These Shores:

My Soul's A Little Grief, Grappling Your Chest, To Climb Your Throat On Sobs; Easily Chased On Other Sighs And Wiped By Fresher Winds.

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

The Universal Pervasion Of Ugliness, Hideous Landscapes, Vile Noises, Foul Language...everything. Unnatural, Broken, Blasted; The Distortion Of The Dead, Whose Unburiable Bodies Sit Outside The Dug Outs All Day, All Night, The Most Execrable Sights On Earth. In Poetry We Call Them The Most Glorious.

The English Say, Yours Truly, And Mean It. The Italians Say, I Kiss Your Feet, And Mean, I Kick Your Head.

The War Affects Me Less Than It Ought. But I Can Do No Service To Anybody By Agitating For News Or Making Dole Over The Slaughter.