These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.

I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears; and caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts; and buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts; and rusted every bayonet with His tears.

Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.

The old Lie:Dulce et decorum estPro patria mori.

The universal pervasion of ugliness, hideous landscapes, vile noises, foul language...everything. Unnatural, broken, blasted; the distortion of the dead, whose unburiable bodies sit outside the dug outs all day, all night, the most execrable sights on earth. In poetry we call them the most glorious.

Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.

Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout"I see your lights!" But ours had long died out.

You shall not hear their mirth:You shall not come to think them well contentBy any jest of mine. These men are worthYour tears:You are not worth their merriment.

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,And half the seed of Europe, one by one.