It's Only Terrible To Have Nothing To

Our Thoughts Are Clay, They Are Moulded With The Changes Of The Days;--when We Are Resting They Are Good; Under Fire, They Are Dead. Fields Of Craters Within And Without.

The Days, The Weeks, The Years Out Here Shall Come Back Again, And Our Dead Comrades Shall Then Stand Up Again And March With Us, Our Heads Shall Be Clear, We Shall Have A Purpose, And So We Shall March, Our Dead Comrades Beside Us, The Years At The Front Behind Us:—against Whom, Against Whom?

We Are Not Youth Any Longer. We Don’t Want To Take The World By Storm. We Are Fleeing. We Fly From Ourselves. From Our Life. We Were Eighteen And Had Begun To Love Life And The World; And We Had To Shoot It To Pieces.

It Is Just As Much A Matter Of Chance That I Am Still Alive As That I Might Have Been Hit. In A Bomb-proof Dug-out I May Be Smashed To Atoms And In The Open May Survive Ten Hour's Bombardment Unscratched. No Soldier Outlives A Thousand Chances. But Every Soldier Believes In Chance And Trusts His Luck.

To Forget Is The Secret Of Eternal Youth. One Grows Old Only Through Memory. There's Much Too Little Forgetting.