Be Bullied, Be Outraged, By Killed, But

The Pallor Of Girls' Brows Shall Be Their Pall; Their Flowers The Tenderness Of Patient Minds, And Each Slow Dusk A Drawing-down Of Blinds.

Sweet And Fitting It Is To Die For The Fatherland.

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

If I Have To Be A Soldier I Must Be A Good One, Anything Else Is Unthinkable

For By My Glee Might Many Men Have Laughed, And Of My Weeping May Something Have Been Left, Which Must Die Now.