A few, a few, too few for drums and yells, May creep back, silent, to still village wells Up half-known roads. |
All a poet can do today is warn. |
All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the truest poets must be truthful. |
And in the happy no-time of his sleeping/ Death took him by the heart. |
Behold, A ram caught in a thicket by its horns; Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him. But the old man would not so, but slew his son... |
Move him into the sun — Gently its touch awoke him once, At home, whispering of fields unsown. Always it woke him, even in France, Until this morning and this snow. |
My arms have mutinied against me — brutes! My fingers fidget like ten idle brats, My back's been stiff for hours, damned hours. Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease. |
My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity. |
Now rather thank I God there is no risk Of gravers scoring it with florid screed. Let my inscription be this soldier's disc. Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed. But may thy heart-beat kiss it, night and day, Until the name grow blurred and fade away. |
Red lips are not so red/ As the stained stones kissed by the English dead. |
Shall Life renew these bodies? Of a truth All death will he annul, all tears assuage? Or fill these void veins full again with youth And wash with an immortal water age? |
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;/ Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,/ And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds. |
Was it for this the clay grew tall? |
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. |