The English Say, Yours Truly,

My Subject Is War, And The Pity Of War.

Those Who, Like The Beasts, Have No Such Hope, Pass Their Old Age Shrouded With An Inward Gloom.

What Passing-bells For These Who Die As Cattle? Only The Monstrous Anger Of The Guns.

Happy Are Men Who Yet Before They Are Killed Can Let Their Veins Run Cold.

The Young Soldier It Is Not Death Without Hereafter To One In Dearth Of Life And Its Laughter, Nor The Sweet Murder Dealt Slow And Even Unto The Martyr Smiling At Heaven: It Is The Smile Faint As A (waning) Myth, Faint, And Exceeding Small On A Boy's Murdered Mouth.