Mud And Rain And Wretchedness And Blood.

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.

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.

I Have Seen And Endured The Sufferings Of The Troops, And I Can No Longer Be A Party To Prolong These Sufferings For Ends Which I Believe To Be Evil And Unjust.

Across The Land A Faint Blue Veil Of Mist Seems Hung; The Woods Wear Yet Arrayment Sober Till Frost Shall Make Them Flame; Silent And Whist The Drooping Cherry Orchards Of October Like Mournful Pennons Hang Their Shriveling Leaves Russet And Orange: All Things Now Decay; Long Since Ye Garnered In Your Autumn Sheaves, And Sad The Robins Pipe At Set Of Day.

I Didn't Want To Die - Not Before I'd Finished Reading The Return Of The Native Anyhow.