Was It For This The Clay Grew

For By My Glee Might Many Men Have Laughed, And Of My Weeping May Something Have Been Left, Which Must Die Now.

I Tried To Peg Out Soldierly,--no Use! One Dies Of War Like Any Old Disease.

After All My Years Of Playing Soldiers, And Then Of Reading History, I Have Almost A Mania To Be In The East, To See Fighting, And To Serve.

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.

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