My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.

A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,
May creep back, silent, to still village wells
Up half-known roads.

Behold,
A ram caught in a thicket by its horns;
Offer the Ram of Pride instead of him.
But the old man would not so, but slew his son...

Move him into the sun —
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.

My arms have mutinied against me — brutes!
My fingers fidget like ten idle brats,
My back's been stiff for hours, damned hours.
Death never gives his squad a Stand-at-ease.

All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the truest poets must be truthful.