But from my grave across my brow Plays no wind of healing now, And fire and ice within me fight Beneath the suffocating night.

They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man, The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.

There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high; The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I.

The bells they sound on Bredon And still the steeples hum. 'Come all to church, good people,' - Oh, noisy bells, be dumb; I hear you, I will come.

Friends, wives and husbands, sons and daughters, dead Of plague, famine, and arrows: and the houses Battered unsafe by cannonades of stone Hurled in by the Ass…

People talk about the horrors of war, but what weapon has man invented that even approaches in cruelty to some of the commoner diseases? 'Natural' death, almos…

I cannot see the war as historians see it. Those clever fellows study all the facts and they see the war as a large thing, one of the biggest events in the leg…