All A Poet Can Do Today Is

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.

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 Dreamed Kind Jesus Fouled The Big-gun Gears; And Caused A Permanent Stoppage In All Bolts; And Buckled With A Smile Mausers And Colts; And Rusted Every Bayonet With His Tears.

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.

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.