I Am Making This Statement As An

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.

I Am Not Protesting Against The Conduct Of The War, But Against The Political Errors And Insincerities For Which The Fighting Men Are Being Sacrificed.

If I Were Fierce, And Bald, And Short Of Breath,i'd Live With Scarlet Majors At The Base,and Speed Glum Heroes Up The Line Of Death.

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.

His Wet White Face And Miserable Eyesbrought Nurses To Him More Than Groans And Sighs:but Hoarse And Low And Rapid Rose And Fellhis Troubled Voice: He Did The Business Well.(first Verse Of Died Of Wounds)