Sweet Dreams Though The Guns Are Booming.

The Miracle Has Passed Me By; It Has Touched But Not Changed Me; I Still Have The Same Name And I Know I Will Probably Bear It Until The End Of My Days; I Am No Phoenix; Resurrection Is Not For Me; I Have Tried To Fly But I Am Tumbling Like A Dazzled, Awkward Rooster Back To Earth, Back Behind The Barbed Wires.

The Storm Lashes Us, Out Of The Confusion Of Grey And Yellow The Hail Of Splinters Whips Forth The Childlike Cries Of The Wounded, And In The Night Shattered Life Groans Painfully Into Silence. Our Hands Are Earth, Our Bodies Clay And Our Eyes Pools Of Rain. We Do Not Know Whether We Are Still Alive.

It's All Rot That They Put In The War-news About The Good Humour Of The Troops, How They Are Arranging Dances Almost Before They Are Out Of The Front-line. We Don't Act Like That Because We Are In A Good Humour: We Are In A Good Humour Because Otherwise We Should Go To Pieces.

How Senseless Is Everything That Can Ever Be Written, Done, Or Thought, When Such Things Are Possible. It Must Be All Lies And Of No Account When The Culture Of A Thousand Years Could Not Prevent This Stream Of Blood Being Poured Out, These Torture-chambers In Their Hundreds Of Thousands. A Hospital Alone Shows What War Is.

The Idea Of Authority, Which They Represented, Was Associated In Our Minds With A Greater Insight And A More Humane Wisdom.