And There'd Be No More Jokes In

Soldiers Are Dreamers; When The Guns Begin They Think Of Firelit Homes, Clean Beds, And Wives.

December Stillness, Teach Me Through Your Trees That Loom Along The West, One With The Land, The Veiled Evangel Of Your Mysteries. While Nightfall, Sad And Spacious, On The Down Deepens, And Dusk Embues Me Where I Stand, With Grave Diminishings Of Green And Brown, Speak, Roofless Nature, Your Instinctive Words; And Let Me Learn Your Secret From The Sky, Following A Flock Of Steadfast-journeying Birds In Lone Remote Migration Beating By. December Stillness, Crossed By Twilight Roads, Teach Me To Travel Far And Bear My Loads.

For It Is Humanly Certain That Most Of Us Remember Very Little Of What We Have Read. To Open Almost Any Book A Second Time Is To Be Reminded That We Had Forgotten Well-nigh Everything That The Writer Told Us. Parting From The Narrator And His Narrative, We Retain Only A Fading Impression; And He, As It Were, Takes The Book Away From Us And Tucks It Under His Arm.

October's Bellowing Anger Breakes And Cleavesthe Bronzed Battalions Of The Stricken Woodin Whose Lament I Hear A Voice That Grievesfor Battle's Fruitless Harvest, And The Feudof Outrage Men. Their Lives Are Like The Leavesscattered In Flocks Of Ruin, Tossed And Blownalong The Westering Furnace Flaring Red.o Martyred Youth And Manhood Overthrown,the Burden Of Your Wrongs Is On My Head.

Man, It Seemed, Had Been Created To Jab The Life Out Of Germans.