No-man's Land Under Snow Is

Numbers Of The Old People Cannot Read. Those Who Can Seldom Do

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.

Was It For This The Clay Grew Tall?

The Marvel Is That We Did Not All Die Of Cold. As A Matter Of Fact, Only One Of My Party Actually Froze To Death Before He Could Be Got Back, But I Am Not Able To Tell How Many Have Ended Up In Hospital. We Were Marooned In A Frozen Desert. There Was Not A Sign Of Life On The Horizon And A Thousand Signs Of Death.

Above All I Am Not Concerned With Poetry. My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War. The Poetry Is In The Pity.