Let us have madness openly, O men
Of my generation. Let us follow
The footsteps of this slaughtered age:
See it trail across Time's dim land
Into the closed house of eternity
With the noise that dying has,
With the face that dead things wear —
                                     nor ever say
We wanted more; we looked to find
An open door, an utter deed of love,
Transforming day's evil darkness;
                   but 
We found extended hell and fog 
Upon the earth, and within the head
A rotting bog of lean huge graves.