Poems Are Made By Fools

For Nothing Keeps A Poet In His High Singing Mood Like Unappeasable Hunger For Unattainable Food.

In A Wood They Call The Rouge Bouquet, There Is A New-made Grave Today, Built By Never A Spade Nor Pick, Yet Covered With Earth Ten Meteres Thick. There Lie Many Fighting Men. Dead In Their Youthful Prime.

In Memoriam: Florence Nightingale She Whom We Love, Our Lady Of Compassion, Can Never Die, For Love Forbids Her Death. Love Has Bent Down In His Old Kindly Fashion, And Breathed Upon Her His Immortal Breath. On Wounded Soldiers, In Their Anguish Lying, Her Gentle Spirit Shall Descend Like Rain. Where The White Flag With The Red Cross Is Flying, There Shall She Dwell, The Vanquisher Of Pain.

Things Have A Terrible Permanence When People Die.

At Present, I Am A Poet Trying To Be A Soldier. To Tell The Truth, I Am Not Interested In Writing Nowadays, Except In So Far As Writing Is The Expression Of Something Beautiful ... The Only Sort Of Book I Care To Write About The War Is The Sort People Will Read After The War Is Over - A Century After It Is Over.