My Subject Is War, And The Pity

For By My Glee Might Many Men Have Laughed, And Of My Weeping May Something Have Been Left, Which Must Die Now.

The Marvel Is That We Did Not All Die Of Cold. As A Matter Of Fact, Only One Of My Party Actually Froze To Death Before He Could Be Got Back, But I Am Not Able To Tell How Many Have Ended Up In Hospital. We Were Marooned In A Frozen Desert. There Was Not A Sign Of Life On The Horizon And A Thousand Signs Of Death.

Dead Men May Envy Living Mites In Cheese, Or Good Germs Even. Microbes Have Their Joys, And Subdivide, And Never Come To Death.

Then, When Much Blood Had Clogged Their Chariot-wheels I Would Go Up And Wash Them From Sweet Wells, Even With Truths That Lie Too Deep For Taint. I Would Have Poured My Spirit Without Stint But Not Through Wounds; Not On The Cess Of War.

The War Affects Me Less Than It Ought. But I Can Do No Service To Anybody By Agitating For News Or Making Dole Over The Slaughter.