The war effects me less than it ought. I can do no service to anybody by agitating for news or making dole over the slaughter.

Was it for this the clay grew tall?

Now rather thank I God there is no riskOf gravers scoring it with florid screed.Let my inscription be this soldier's disc.Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed.But may thy heart-beat kiss it, night and day,Until the name grow blurred and fade away.

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...

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

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.