For Nothing Keeps A Poet In His

In A Wood They Call The Rouge Bouquet, There Is A New-made Grave Today, Built By Never A Spade Nor Pick, Yet Covered With Earth Ten Meteres Thick. There Lie Many Fighting Men. Dead In Their Youthful Prime.

Poems Are Made By Fools Like Me, But Only God Can Make A Tree

It Is Stern Work, It Is Perilous Work, To Thrust Your Hand In The Sun And Pull Out A Spark Of Immortal Flame To Warm The Hearts Of Men: But Prometheus, Torn By The Claws And Beaks Whose Task Is Never Done, Would Be Tortured Another Eternity To Go Stealing Fire Again.

I Think That I Shall Never Scan A Tree As Lovely As A Man. . . . . A Tree Depicts Divinest Plan, But God Himself Lives In A Man.

At Present, I Am A Poet Trying To Be A Soldier. To Tell The Truth, I Am Not Interested In Writing Nowadays, Except In So Far As Writing Is The Expression Of Something Beautiful ... The Only Sort Of Book I Care To Write About The War Is The Sort People Will Read After The War Is Over - A Century After It Is Over.