There Is No Place In Which To

The Only Reason A Road Is Good As Every Wanderer Knows / Is Just Because Of The Homes, The Homes, The Homes To Which One Goes

I Think That I Shall Never See A Poem Lovely As A Tree. A Tree Whose Hungry Mouth Is Prest Against The Earth's Sweet Flowing Breast.

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.

There Is No Peace To Be Taken With Poets Who Are Young, For They Worry About The Wars To Be Fought And The Songs That Must Be Sung.

For Nothing Keeps A Poet In His High Singing Mood Like Unappeasable Hunger For Unattainable Food.