In Me The Tiger Sniffs The Rose.

And There'd Be No More Jokes In Music-halls To Mock The Riddled Corpses Round Bapaume.

How Innocent Were These Trees, That In Mist-green May, Blown By A Prospering Breeze, Stood Garlanded And Gay; Who Now In Sundown Glow Of Serious Colour Clad Confront Me With Their Show As Though Resigned And Sad, Trees, Who Unwhispering Stand Umber, Bronze, Gold; Pavilioning The Land For One Grown Tired And Old; Elm, Chestnut, Aspen And Pine, I Am Merged In You, Who Tell Once More In Tones Of Time, Your Foliaged Farewell.

For It Is Humanly Certain That Most Of Us Remember Very Little Of What We Have Read. To Open Almost Any Book A Second Time Is To Be Reminded That We Had Forgotten Well-nigh Everything That The Writer Told Us. Parting From The Narrator And His Narrative, We Retain Only A Fading Impression; And He, As It Were, Takes The Book Away From Us And Tucks It Under His Arm.

And When The War Is Done And Youth Stone Dead, I'd Toddle Safely Home And Die--in Bed.

I Am Making This Statement As An Act Of Wilful Defiance Of Military Authority, Because I Believe That The War Is Being Deliberately Prolonged By Those Who Have The Power To End It. I Am A Soldier, Convinced That I Am Acting On Behalf Of Soldiers. I Believe That This War, On Which I Entered As A War Of Defence And Liberation, Has Now Become A War Of Aggression And Conquest.