It's All Rot That They Put In

Sweet Dreams Though The Guns Are Booming.

A Man Can Gasp Out His Life Beside You-and You Feel None Of It. Pity, Sympathy, Sure-but You Don't Feel The Pain. Your Belly Is Whole And That's What Counts. A Half-yard Away Someone's World Is Snuffled Out In Roaring Agony-and You Feel Nothing. That's The Misery Of The World.

The Coffin, It Shall Protect Me, Though Death Himself Lies In It

Life Is A Disease, Brother, And Death Begins Already At Birth. Every Breath, Every Heartbeat, Is A Moment Of Dying - A Little Shove Toward The End.

He Fell In October 1918, On A Day That Was So Quiet And Still On The Whole Front, That The Army Report Confined Itself To The Single Sentence: All Quiet On The Western Front. He Had Fallen Forward And Lay On The Earth As Though Sleeping. Turning Him Over One Saw That He Could Not Have Suffered Long; His Face Had An Expression Of Calm, As Though Almost Glad The End Had Come.