Be Bullied, Be Outraged, By Killed, But

My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War.

Red Lips Are Not So Red As The Stained Stones Kissed By The English Dead.

I Am Not Concerned With Poetry. My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War. The Poetry Is In The Pity. Yet These Elegies Are To This Generation In No Sense Conciliatory. They May Be To The Next. All A Poet Can Do Today Is Warn. That Is Why The True Poets Must Be Truthful.

The Old Happiness Is Unreturning. Boy's Griefs Are Not So Grievous As Youth's Yearning. Boys Have No Sadness Sadder Than Our Hope.

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!