And The Wind Upon Its Way Whispered

And When The War Is Done And Youth Stone Dead, I'd Toddle Safely Home And Die--in Bed.

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.

Everyone Suddenly Burst Out Singing; And I Was Filled With Such Delight As Prisoned Birds Must Find In Freedom, Winging Wildly Across The White Orchards And Dark-green Fields; On—on—and Out Of Sight. Everyone’s Voice Was Suddenly Lifted; And Beauty Came Like The Setting Sun: My Heart Was Shaken With Tears; And Horror Drifted Away ... O, But Everyone Was A Bird; And The Song Was Wordless; The Singing Will Never Be Done.

The Fact Is That Five Years Ago I Was, As Near As Possible, A Different Person To What I Am Tonight. I, As I Am Now, Didn't Exist At All. Will The Same Thing Happen In The Next Five Years? I Hope So.

The Dead...are More Real Than The Living Because They Are Complete.