On The Neck Of The

Underneath My Stiffened Gown Is The Softness Of A Woman Bathing In A Marble Basin, A Basin In The Midst Of Hedges Grown So Thick, She Cannot See Her Lover Hiding, But She Guesses He Is Near, And The Sliding Of The Water Seems The Stroking Of A Dear Hand Upon Her.

Time! Joyless Emblem Of The Greed Of Millions, Robber Of The Best Which Earth Can Give.

This Is War: Boys Flung Into A Breach Like Shoveled Earth; And Old Men, Broken, Driving Rapidly Before Crowds Of People In A Glitter Of Silly Decorations. Behind The Boys And The Old Men, Life Weeps, And Shreds Her Garments To The Blowing Winds.

All Books Are Either Dreams Or Swords, You Can Cut, Or You Can Drug, With Words.

Fifteen Millions Of Soldiers With Popguns And Horses All Bent Upon Killing, Because Their "of Courses" Are Not Quite The Same.