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.

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 primeNever to laugh nor love againNor taste the Summertime.

Yes, God forgives and men forget, And you're forgiven and forgotten.You might be gaily sinning yet And quick and fresh instead of rotten.And when you think of love and fame And all that might have come to pass,Then don't you feel a little shame? And don't you think you were an ass?

They shall not live who have not tasted death. They only sing who are struck dumb by God.

There is no strange and distant placeThat is not gladdened by His face.And every nation kneels to hailThe Splendour shining through Its veil.

An iron hand has stilled the throats That throbbed with loud and rhythmic glee And dammed the flood of silver notesThat drenched the world in melody.

I have no vision of gods, not of Eros with love-arrows laden, Jupiter thundering death or of Juno his white-breasted queen, Yet have I seen All of the joy of the world in the innocent heart of a maiden.

Here is a shop of wonderment. From every land has come a prize;Rich spices from the Orient, And fruit that knew Italian skies,And figs that ripened by the sea In Smyrna, nuts from hot Brazil,Strange pungent meats from Germany, And currants from a Grecian hill.