Sweet Dreams Though The Guns Are Booming.

The Coffin, It Shall Protect Me, Though Death Himself Lies In It

Am I Jealous? He Thought, Astonished. Jealous Of The Chance Object To Which She Has Attached Herself? Jealous Of Something That Does Not Concern Me? One Can Be Jealous Of A Love That Has Turned Away, But Not Of That To Which It Has Turned.

Mirrors Are There When We Are And Yet They Never Give Anything Back To Us But Our Own Image. Never, Never Shall We Know What They Are When They Are Alone Or What Is Behind Them.

We're No Longer Young Men. We've Lost Any Desire To Conquer The World. We Are Refugees. We Are Fleeing From Ourselves. From Our Lives. We Were Eighteen Years Old, And We Had Just Begun To Love The World And To Love Being In It; But We Had To Shoot At It. The First Shell To Land Went Straight For Our Hearts. We've Been Cut Off From Real Action, From Getting On, From Progress. We Don't Believe In Those Things Any More; We Believe In The War.

And Even If These Scenes From Our Youth Were Given Back To Us We Would Hardly Know What To Do. The Tender, Secret Influence That Passed From Them Into Us Could Not Rise Again. We Might Be Amongst Them And Move In Them; We Might Remember And Love Them And Be Stirred By The Sight Of Them. But It Would Be Like Gazing At The Photograph Of A Dead Comrade; Those Are His Features, It Is His Face, And The Days We Spent Together Take On A Mournful Life In The Memory; But The Man Himself It Is Not.