The Old Happiness Is Unreturning.

For By My Glee Might Many Men Have Laughed, And Of My Weeping May Something Have Been Left, Which Must Die Now.

These Men Are Worth Your Tears. You Are Not Worth Their Merriment.

All The Poet Can Do Today Is Warn. That Is Why True Poets Must Be Truthful.

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.

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