Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
The old Lie:Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori.
All a poet can do today is warn.
These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.
Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
And in his eyes The cold stars lighting, very old and bleak, In different skies.
Sleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery, Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery: To miss the march of this retreating world Into vain citadels that are not walled.
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, And half the seed of Europe, one by one
Children are not meant to be studied, but enjoyed. Only by studying to be pleased do we understand them.
O what made fatuous sunbeams toil To break earth's sleep at all?
But the old man would not so, but slew his son, And half the seed of Europe, one by one.
Voices of boys were by the river-side. Sleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad.
I dreamed kind Jesus fouled the big-gun gears; and caused a permanent stoppage in all bolts; and buckled with a smile Mausers and Colts; and rusted every bayonet with His tears.
Consummation is consumption We cannot consummate our bliss and not consume All joys are cakes and vanish in eating All bliss is sugar's melting in the mouth
Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout "I see your lights!" But ours had long died out.
Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander, Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.
For by my glee might many men have laughed, And of my weeping may something have been left, Which must die now.
He's lost his colour very far from here, Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry
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.
As bronze may be much beautified by lying in the dark damp soil, so men who fade in dust of warfare fade fairer, and sorrow blooms their soul.
What passing bells for these who die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons.
You shall not hear their mirth: You shall not come to think them well content By any jest of mine. These men are worth Your tears:You are not worth their merriment.
I have perceived much beauty In the hoarse oaths that kept our courage straight; Heard music in the silentness of duty; Found peace where shell-storms spouted reddest spate.
Ambition may be defined as the willingness to receive any number of hits on the nose.
Shall they return to beating of great bells In wild train-loads? A few, a few, too few for drums and yells, May creep back, silent, to village wells, Up half-known roads.
There breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray As men's are, dead.
But let my death be memoried on this disc. Wear it, sweet friend. Inscribe no date nor deed. But let thy heart-beat kiss it night and day, Until the name grow vague and wear away.
The dust that fell unnoted as a dew, Wrapped the dead city's face like mummy-cloth
Now begin Famines of thought and feeling.
