Soldiers Are Dreamers; When The Guns Begin

You Smug-faced Crowds With Kindling Eye Who Cheer When Soldier Lads March By, Sneak Home And Pray You'll Never Know The Hell Where Youth And Laughter Go.

And There'd Be No More Jokes In Music-halls To Mock The Riddled Corpses Round Bapaume.

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.

The Visionless Officialized Fatuitythat Once Kept Europe Safe For Perpetuity.

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.