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, Nor taste the Summertime.
I think that I shall never see But only God can make a tree.
Yes, God forgives and men forget, And don't you think you were an ass?
There is no strange and distant place The Splendour shining through Its veil.
An iron hand has stilled the throats That drenched the world in melody.
I have no vision of gods, not of Eros with love-arrows laden, All of the joy of the world in the innocent heart of a maiden.
Here is a shop of wonderment. And currants from a Grecian hill.
He is the lord of goodly things And on his tomb there is no bay.
Perhaps he lives and dies unpraised, Are sung, as every child must know.
For, once he thrilled with high romance Who loves, who is beloved in turn.
The scene shall never fit the deed. And Jesus ride upon an ass.
This man has home and child and wife These stand, all else shall pass away.
O Carpenter of Nazareth, The splendor of humanity!
God be thanked for the Milky Way that runs across the sky, But the only thing I think it is, is Main Street, Heaventown.
They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years, But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.
Unlock the door this evening Will glorify it all.
There is no rope can strangle song Nor quicklime eat the living soul.
It seems appropriate to me to state Or my heart.
Her soul's light shines through, And noble.
Loving her, Monsignore, And her blue garment, made in the manner of the Japanese.
But, of your courtesy, Monsignore, For wearing a blue gown."
The song within your heart could never rise Until love bade it spread its wings and soar.
Love is made out of ecstasy and wonder; It is a linnet's fluting after rain.
Because Mankind is glad and brave and young, A harp Aeolian on Life's branches hung.
Your eyes, that looked on glory, could discover And it was grief that made you love Mankind.
For blows on the fort of evil Where the great dead poets are.
There is joy over disappointment For unattainable food.
Lord Byron and Shelley and Plunkett, In which to sing and to die!
When you say of the making of ballads and songs that it is woman's work You forget all the fighting poets that have been in every land.
The title of poet's a noble thing, worth living and dying for, Would be tortured another eternity to go stealing fire again.
At the foot of the Cross on Calvary And he won the Robe of Christ.
Oh, he can be the forest, In the radiant Robe of Christ?
He comes, and his face is sad and mild, Those eyes that love me so!
O Mother of Good Counsel, lend But not the wounded heart."
David is the song upon God's lips, Saint Michael, show me how to fight!
I think that I shall never see