I Am A Soldier, Convinced

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

O German Mother Dreaming By The Fire, While You Are Knitting Socks To Send Your Son His Face Is Trodden Deeper In The Mud.

And The Wind Upon Its Way Whispered The Boughs Of May, And Touched The Nodding Peony Flowers To Bid Them Waken.

I Didn't Want To Die - Not Before I'd Finished Reading The Return Of The Native Anyhow.

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.