A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,May creep back, silent, to still village wellsUp half-known roads.
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 subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.
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...
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.
Above all I am not concerned with Poetry. My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.
All a poet can do today is warn.