And When The War Is

I Am A Soldier, Convinced That I Am Acting On Behalf Of Soldiers.

The Song Was Wordless; The Singing Will Never Be Done.

And It's Been Proved That Soldiers Don't Go Mad Unless They Lose Control Of Ugly Thoughts That Drive Them Out To Jabber Among The Trees.

Across The Land A Faint Blue Veil Of Mist Seems Hung; The Woods Wear Yet Arrayment Sober Till Frost Shall Make Them Flame; Silent And Whist The Drooping Cherry Orchards Of October Like Mournful Pennons Hang Their Shriveling Leaves Russet And Orange: All Things Now Decay; Long Since Ye Garnered In Your Autumn Sheaves, And Sad The Robins Pipe At Set Of Day.

How Innocent Were These Trees, That In Mist-green May, Blown By A Prospering Breeze, Stood Garlanded And Gay; Who Now In Sundown Glow Of Serious Colour Clad Confront Me With Their Show As Though Resigned And Sad, Trees, Who Unwhispering Stand Umber, Bronze, Gold; Pavilioning The Land For One Grown Tired And Old; Elm, Chestnut, Aspen And Pine, I Am Merged In You, Who Tell Once More In Tones Of Time, Your Foliaged Farewell.