Who's This—alone With Stone And Sky? It's

Who's This—alone With Stone And Sky? It's Only My Old Dog And I— It's Only Him; It's Only Me; Alone With Stone And Grass And Tree. What Share We Most—we Two Together? Smells, And Awareness Of The Weather. What Is It Makes Us More Than Dust? My Trust In Him; In Me His Trust.

Soldiers Are Citizens Of Death's Grey Land, Drawing No Dividend From Time's Tomorrows.

How Innocent Were These Trees, That In Mist-green May, Blown By A Prospering Breeze, Stood Garlanded And Gay; Who Now In Sundown Glow Of Serious Colour Clad Confront Me With Their Show As Though Resigned And Sad, Trees, Who Unwhispering Stand Umber, Bronze, Gold; Pavilioning The Land For One Grown Tired And Old; Elm, Chestnut, Aspen And Pine, I Am Merged In You, Who Tell Once More In Tones Of Time, Your Foliaged Farewell.

And It's Been Proved That Soldiers Don't Go Mad Unless They Lose Control Of Ugly Thoughts That Drive Them Out To Jabber Among The Trees.

Life For The Majority Of The Population. Is An Unlovely Struggle Against Unfair Odds. Culminating In A Cheap Funeral.