Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds not on the cess of war.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels I would go up and wash them from sweet wells, Even with truths that lie too deep for taint. I would have poured my spirit without stint But not through wounds not on the cess of war.
It seemed that out of battle I escaped down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped though granites which titanic wars had groined.
Flying is the only active profession I would ever continue with enthusiasm after the War.
One dies of war like any old disease.
The Dead-Beat He dropped, more sullenly than wearily, Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat, And none of us could kick him to his feet Just blinked at my revolver, blearily Didn't appear to know a war was on, Or see the blasted trench at which he stared. 'I'll do 'em in,' he whined, 'if this hand's spared, I'll murder them, I will.' A low voice said, 'It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees his pluck's all gone, Dreaming of all the valiant, that aren't dead Bold uncles, smiling ministerially Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun In some new home, improved materially. It's not these stiffs have crazed him nor the Hun.' We sent him down at last, out of the way. Unwounded - stout lad, too, before that strafe. Malingering Stretcher-bearers winked, 'Not half' Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh 'That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray'
My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories