If I Thought That Any Poem Of

Truth-loving Persians Do Not Dwell Upon The Trivial Skirmish Fought Near Marathon.

I Do Not Love The Sabbath, The Soapsuds And The Starch, The Troops Of Solemn People Who To Salvation March. I Take My Book, I Take My Stick On The Sabbath Day, In Woody Nooks And Valleys I Hide Myself Away. To Ponder There In Quiet God's Universal Plan, Resolved That Church And Sabbath Were Never Made For Man.

She Told Me That All The Girls In Annezin Prayed Every Night For The War To End And For The English To Go Away As Soon As Their Money Was Spent. She Said That The Clause About The Money Was Always Repeated In Case God Should Miss It.

Anthropologists Are A Connecting Link Between Poets And Scientists; Though Their Field-work Among Primitive Peoples Has Often Made Them Forget The Language Of Science.

Where Nature With Accustomed Round Sweeps And Garnishes The Ground With Kindly Beauty, Warm Or Cold Alternate Seasons Never Old: Heathen, How Furiously You Rage, Cursing This Blood And Brimstone Age, How Furiously Against Your Will You Kill And Kill Again, And Kill: All Thought Of Peace Behind You Cast, Till Like Small Boys With Fear Aghast, Each Cries For God To Understand, 'i Could Not Help It, It Was My Hand.