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 … - Wilfred Owen

These men are worth your tears. You are not worth their merriment.

"O Life, Life, let me breathe, — a dug-out rat! Not worse than ours the existences rats lead — Nosing along at night down some safe vat, They find a shell-proof home before they rot. Dead men may envy living mites in cheese, Or good germs even. Microbes have their joys, And subdivide, and never come to death, Certainly flowers have the easiest time on earth. "I shall be one with nature, herb, and stone." Shelley would tell me. Shelley would be stunned; The dullest Tommy hugs that fancy now. "Pushing up daisies," is their creed, you know. To grain, then, go my fat, to buds my sap, For all the usefulness there is in soap. D'you think the Boche will ever stew man-soup?"

Now begin
Famines of thought and feeling.

You would not tell with such high zest to children ardent for some desperate glory the old lie: Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori.