General Chat

That Christmas Armistice.

A Plum Pudding Policy Which Might Have Ended The War
Written in the trenches by Private Frederick W. Heath.

The night closed in early - the ghostly shadows that haunt the trenches came to keep us company as we stood to arms. Under a pale moon, one could just see the grave-like rise of ground which marked the German trenches two hundred yards away.

Fires in the English lines had died down, and only the squelch of the sodden boots in the slushy mud, the whispered orders of the officers and the NCOs, and the moan of the wind broke the silence of the night. The soldiers' Christmas Eve had come at last, and it was hardly the time or place to feel grateful for it.

Memory in her shrine kept us in a trance of saddened silence. Back somewhere in England, the fires were burning in cosy rooms; in fancy I heard laughter and the thousand melodies of reunion on Christmas Eve.

With overcoat thick with wet mud, hands cracked and sore with the frost, I leaned against the side of the trench, and, looking through my loophole, fixed weary eyes on the German trenches. Thoughts surged madly in my mind; but they had no sequence, no cohesion. Mostly they were of home as I had known it through the years that had brought me to this. I asked myself why I was in the trenches in misery at all, when I might have been in England warm and prosperous.

That involuntary question was quickly answered. For is there not a multitude of houses in England, and has not someone to keep them intact? I thought of a shattered cottage in -- , and felt glad that I was in the trenches. That cottage was once somebody's home. Still looking and dreaming, my eyes caught a flare in the darkness. A light in the enemy's trenches was so rare at that hour that I passed a message down the line.

I had hardly spoken when light after light sprang up along the German front. Then quite near our dug-outs, so near as to make me start and clutch my rifle, I heard a voice. there was no mistaking that voice with its guttural ring. With ears strained, I listened, and then, all down our line of trenches there came to our ears a greeting unique in war: "English soldier, English soldier, a merry Christmas, a merry Christmas!"

~~~~~~~~~~~
shaun

Friendly invitation.

Following that salute boomed the invitation from those harsh voices: "Come out, English soldier; come out here to us." For some little time we were cautious, and did not even answer.

Officers, fearing treachery, ordered the men to be silent. But up and down our line one heard the men answering that Christmas greeting from the enemy. How could we resist wishing each other a Merry Christmas, even though we might be at each other's throats immediately afterwards? So we kept up a running conversation with the Germans, all the while our hands ready on our rifles.

Blood and peace, enmity and fraternity - war's most amazing paradox. The night wore on to dawn - a night made easier by songs from the German trenches, the pipings of piccolos and from our broad lines laughter and Christmas carols. Not a shot was fired, except for down on our right, where the French artillery were at work.

Came the dawn, pencilling the sky with grey and pink. Under the early light we saw our foes moving recklessly about on top of their trenches. Here, indeed, was courage; no seeking the security of the shelter but a brazen invitation to us to shoot and kill with deadly certainty.

But did we shoot? Not likely! We stood up ourselves and called benisons on the Germans. Then came the invitation to fall out of the trenches and meet half way. Still cautious we hung back. Not so the others. They ran forward in little groups, with hands held up above their heads, asking us to do the same. Not for long could such an appeal be resisted - beside, was not the courage up to now all on one side? Jumping up onto the parapet, a few of us advanced to meet the on-coming Germans.

Out went the hands and tightened in the grip of friendship. Christmas had made the bitterest foes friends.

The Gift of Gifts.

Here was no desire to kill, but just the wish of a few simple soldiers (and no one is quite so simple as a soldier) that on Christmas Day, at any rate, the force of fire should cease. We gave each other cigarettes and exchanged all manner of things.

We wrote our names and addresses on the field service postcards, and exchanged them for German ones. We cut the buttons off our coats and took in exchange the Imperial Arms of Germany. But the gift of gifts was Christmas pudding.

The sight of it made the Germans' eyes grow wide with hungry wonder, and at the first bite of it they were our friends for ever. Given a sufficient quantity of Christmas puddings, every German in the trenches before ours would have surrendered.

And so we stayed together for a while and talked, even though all the time there was a strained feeling of suspicion which rather spoilt this Christmas armistice. We could not help remembering that we were enemies, even though we had shaken hands.

We dare not advance too near their trenches lest we saw too much, nor could the Germans come beyond the barbed wire which lay before ours. After we had chatted, we turned back to our respective trenches for breakfast. All through the day no shot was fired, and all we did was talk to each other and make confessions which, perhaps, were truer at that curious moment than in the normal times of war.

How far this unofficial truce extended along the lines I do not know, but I do know that what I have written here applies to the -- on our side and the 158th German Brigade, composed of Westphalians.
As I finish this short and scrappy description of a strangely human event, we are pouring rapid fire into the German trenches, and they are returning the compliment just as fiercely.

Screeching through the air above us are the shattering shells of rival batteries of artillery. So we are back once more to the ordeal of fire.

THE ABOVE INFORMATION I HAVE C & P FROM http://www.christmastruce.co.uk



ABOUT THIS SITE.

Operation Plum Puddings was borne out of research conducted by Alan Cleaver and Lesley Park in 1999 for a booklet on the Christmas Truce called, Plum Puddings For All (now out of print). This collated letters about the truce contained in Hampshire newspapers as well as background material on the men who wrote them.

It made Alan and Lesley aware of the vast resource lying dormant in newspaper archives: original personal letters from participants describing what happened and the effect it had on them. Volunteers have been recruited (and are still sought) to go through these archives and transcribe the letters. It is a non-commercial exercise and the transcriptions will be made available to the public via this website.

Alan Cleaver is deputy editor of The Whitehaven News. He has worked on regional papers throughout his career and on The Times' website. He is editor or co-editor of a number of a local history publications including Strange Wycombe and Strange Berkshire.

He is editor of the Strange Britain website.
Lesley Park is a freelance journalist based in Whitehaven, Cumbria. She was co-author of Plum Puddings .

~~~~~~~~
shaun

A Carol From Flanders.

In Flanders on the Christmas morn
The trenched foemen lay,
the German and the Briton born,
And it was Christmas Day.

The red sun rose on fields accurst,
The gray fog fled away;
But neither cared to fire the first,
For it was Christmas Day!

They called from each to each across
The hideous disarray,
For terrible has been their loss:
"Oh, this is Christmas Day!"

Their rifles all they set aside,
One impulse to obey;
'Twas just the men on either side,
Just men — and Christmas Day.

They dug the graves for all their dead
And over them did pray:
And Englishmen and Germans said:
"How strange a Christmas Day!"

Between the trenches then they met,
Shook hands, and e'en did play
At games on which their hearts were set
On happy Christmas Day.

Not all the emperors and kings,
Financiers and they
Who rule us could prevent these things —
For it was Christmas Day.

Oh ye who read this truthful rime
From Flanders, kneel and say:
God speed the time when every day
Shall be as Christmas Day.

By Frederick Niven




REMEMBERANCE .

Words – Charles Henrywood

May be sung to the music – Finlandia by Jean Sibelius


Grant peace, O Lord, across our strife-torn world,
Where war divides and greed and dogma drive.
Help us to learn the lessons from the past,
That all are human and all pay the price.
All life is dear and should be treated so;
Joined, not divided, is the way to go.

Protect, dear Lord, all who, on our behalf,
Now take the steps that place them in harm's way.
May they find courage for each task they face
By knowing they are in our thoughts always.
Then, duty done and missions at an end,
Return them safe to family and friends.

Grant rest, O Lord, to those no longer with us;
Who died protecting us and this their land.
Bring healing, Lord, to those who, through their service,
Bear conflict’s scars on body or in mind.
With those who mourn support and comfort share.
Give strength to those who for hurt loved-ones care.

And some there be who no memorial have;
Who perished are as though they’d never been.
For our tomorrows their today they gave,
And simply asked that in our hearts they'd live.
We heed their call and pledge ourselves again,
At dusk and dawn - we will remember them!

~~~~~~~~~~~
shaun

Shaun
A link to radio 4 this morning in case you didn't hear it.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b04tjdlg

Scroll down and listen to the descendant of Kaiser Wilhelm 11.
Von

Thank you Von, will check your link out tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Vision – The Angel of Mons.

They came, each summoned by the clarion call
That hereafter might yet become their tolling bell of effigy.
Each had come to defend freedom, a hope, a cause...
A country, threatened by evil catastrophe.
Were we never so strong, never so vulnerable, never so unprepared?
And yet, gladly we fought. But at what cost, for what gain and at what price?
Every soldier’s wounded soul, made whole only by healing messages of love –
The muted hopes and dreams of dear ones left at home.
Obliteration, annihilation - war - call it what you will.
Fighting for glory - a barbed-wire crown?
And yet - many have trod this path,
Not knowing to what victory they aspired.
Our song of triumph deadened in the lingering mists of battlefield agony.
Never to be repeated?
Did a vision once inspire us?
Had God been on our side?
Were there shining angels there to sound our victory?
Or was it just a mirage, as the new day dawned at last?

Peter Summers
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Remember Me
(The voice of the dead)

Remember me
Duty called and I went to war
Though I'd never fired a gun before
I paid the price for your new day
As all my dreams were blown away

Remember me
We all stood true as whistles blew
And faced the shell and stench of Hell
Now battle's done, there is no sound
Our bones decay beneath the ground
We cannot see, or smell, or hear
There is no death, or hope or fear

Remember me
Once we, like you, would laugh and talk
And run and walk and do the things that you all do
But now we lie in rows so neat
Beneath the soil, beneath your feet

Remember me
In mud and gore and the blood of war
We fought and fell and move no more
Remember me, I am not dead
I'm just a voice within your head.

Harry Riley

http://www.cpfc.co.uk/news/article/silent-night-of-world-war-one-2134583.aspx?

10th December 2014
Around 1500 people braved a wet and blustery night at Selhurst Park on Tuesday evening to commemorate “The Silent Night of World War One”, a historic carol service remembering the famous truce of WW1.

In what was a profoundly moving evening, Prince Philip Kiril of Prussia, the great-great grandson of Kaiser Wilhelm 11 (who was a highly significant figure in taking Germany to war in 1914), asked for forgiveness for his great-great grandfather`s actions that led to countless lives being lost.

CPFC club chaplain Chris Roe said “It's really powerful when two organisations that have such unique abilities to gather people together- the Church and the football club-combine together to uplift the community. `Silent Night` was a wonderful and moving event.”

Von~~ thank you for your link, very interesting.

Joy~~thank you for adding your link, will check it out again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Home at Last.

He's home at last, a mother's son, a fine young man, his duty done,
Yet not for him the fond embrace, a loving kiss, a smiling face
Or cries of joy to laugh and cheer the safe return of one so dear,
It is his lot to show the world a soldiers fate as flags unfurl
And Standards lower in salutation, symbols of a grateful nation.

Sombre now, the drum beats low, as he is carried, gentle, so
As if not to disturb his rest, by comrades, three and three abreast
Who now, as quiet orders sound, they, one by one then move around to place him in the carriage decked with flowers in calm and hushed respect, preparing for the sad, slow ride through silent crowds who wait outside.

So the warrior now returns to native soil and rightly earns
The great respect to one so young, though sadness stills the waiting throng,while flowers strew the path he takes, as the carriage slowly makes a final turning to allow the veterans standing there to show the soldiers pride, a silent, mute, proud and respectful last salute.

Yet, while onlookers stand and see the simple, moving ceremony,
There is a home, a place somewhere, where sits a waiting, vacant chair, and one great yawning empty space in someone's heart, no last embrace to bid a final, fond farewell to one who will forever dwell In love and cherished memory, a Husband, Son, eternally.

And we who see should not forget that in this soldier's final debt
And sacrifice for duty's sake, it is the loved ones who must take
The hurt, to bear as best they can, and face a future lesser than
The one they dreamed in bygone years, now to regard with bitter tears,reflecting, as time intervenes, on thoughts of how it might have been.

But in their grief there's quiet pride that loved ones bravely fought and died believing in a worthy goal which helps give solace, and consoles by knowing that the loss they bear is shared by all our peoples where In gratitude, their names will be forever honoured, guaranteed to be remembered and enshrined, beyond the shifting sands of time.

Tony Church
~~~~~~~~~~~

Sunset Vigil.

The news is spread far and wide
Another comrade has sadly died
A sunset vigil upon the sand
As a soldier leaves this foreign land
We stand alone, and yet as one
In the fading light of a setting sun
We’ve all gathered to say goodbye
To our fallen comrade who’s set to fly
The eulogy’s read about their life
Sometimes with words from pals or wife
We all know when the CO’s done
What kind of soldier they’d become
The padre then calls us all to pray
The bugler has Last Post to play
The cannon roars and belches flame
We will recall, with pride, their name
A minute’s silence stood in place
As tears roll down the hardest face
deafening silence fills the air
With each of us in personal prayer
Reveille sounds and the parade is done
The hero remembered, forgotten by none
They leave to start the journey back
In a coffin draped in the Union Jack.

Sgt Andy McFarlane.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/magazine-30417641
Viewpoint: Christmas is not for trivialising war

Thank you for your link Joy, very interesting.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I do not know your name.

I do not know your name, but I know you died
I do not know from where you came, but I know you died.

Your uniform, branch of service, it matters not to me
Whether Volunteer or Conscript, or how it came to be
That politicians' failures, or some power-mad ambition
Brought you too soon to your death, in the name of any nation.

You saw, you felt, you knew full well, as friend and foe were taken
By bloody death, that your life too, was forfeit and forsaken
Yet on you went and fought and died, in your close and private hell
For Mate or Pal or Regiment and memories never to tell.

It was for each other, through shot and shell, the madness you endured side by side, through wound and pain, and comradeship assured no family ties, or bloodline link, could match that bond of friend who shared the horror and kept on going, at last until the end.

We cannot know, we were not there, it's beyond our comprehension to know the toll that battle brings, of resolute intention to carry on, day by day, for all you loved and hoped for
To live in peace a happy life, away from bloody war.

For far too many, no long life ahead, free of struggle and pain and the gun and we must remember the price that was paid, by each and every one regardless of views, opinions aside, no matter how each of us sees it they were there and I cannot forget, even though I did not live it.

I do not know your name, but I know you died
I do not know from where you came, but I know you died.

Kenny Martin

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Crosses.

I stood there before the crosses
glowing white in row on row
Everyone a young life cut short
as the names upon them show.

The dates they died below the names
tell of wars now passed and gone
Passchendaele, the Somme, and Mons
of battles fought, and lost or won.

History remembers, as it should
these men who fought and died
Whilst for their families left behind
a dull sorrow tinged with pride.

The faces of boys held now in Sepia
who died in days long gone
yet living on in memories
and hearts, still holding on.

Yet despite the hurt and grief here
what with horror makes me fill
Is that when I look behind me
there are more new crosses growing still.

Bill Mitton

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I went to see the soldiers.

I went to see the soldiers, row on row on row,
And wondered about each so still, their badges all on show.
What brought them here, what life before
Was like for each of them?
What made them angry, laugh, or cry,

These soldiers, boys and men.
Some so young, some older still, a bond more close than brothers
These men have earned and shared a love, that's not like any others
They trained as one, they fought as one
They shared their last together
That bond endures, that love is true
And will be, now and ever.

I could not know, how could I guess, what choices each had made,
Of how they came to soldiering, what part each one had played?
But here they are and here they'll stay,
Each one silent and in place,
Their headstones line up row on row
They guard this hallowed place.

Kenny Martin

Shaun another link for you

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-30444024

<3 Von

has everyone seen the scupture designed by the schoolboy to commemorate the truce - it's beautiful and was unveiled today by Duke of Cambridge

I did Ann :-) a clever little boy :-D

Von~~ saw it at lunch time.

Ann~~yes
Fly~~nice to see you.

Regarding the Sculpture and the little boy check out this link.

http://www.bedfordtoday.co.uk/news/national/memorial-remembers-christmas-truce-1-6470265

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/sponsored/travel/first-world-war-centenary/10942667/christmas-truce-1914.html

http://noglory.org/index.php/articles/182-how-true-is-the-1914-christmas-truce-when-enemies-played-football-instead-of-killing-each-other

Taking a Stand.

I ask you to stand with me
For both the injured and the lost
I ask you to keep count with me
Of all the wars and what they cost
I ask you to be silent with me
Quietly grateful for our lot
As I expect you're as thankful as me
For the health and life we've got
I ask that you wish them well with me
All those still risking their all
And I ask that you remember with me
The names of those that fall
I expect that you are proud like me
Of this great nation of ours too
So enjoying all its freedoms like me
Support those upholding them for you
I hope that you are hopeful like me
That we'll soon bring an end to wars
So you'll have to stand no more with me
And mourning families no different from yours
'Til then be thankful you can stand with me
Thinking of those who now cannot
For standing here today with me
At least we show they're not forgot

John Bailey
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wonderful I W M link below.

http://www.iwm.org.uk/search/global?query=christmas+truce&x=8&y=11

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Joy~~thank you for your links.

The Volunteer.

Over one hundred years we’ve been falling in
Side by side our regular brethren
By some once regarded as second rate
Our efforts overcome all derision of late
For times have changed, many wars having passed
And still we fight whenever we’re asked
One night a week, twelve weekends a year
We say our farewells and don our gear
We learn, we train, keep ourselves fit
Until the day we’re told ‘‘this is it’’
Where gaps would be we fill the roll
But on our numbers, this takes its toll
So in lining street and bowing head
We join a Wiltshire town to mourn our dead
And Padres lead us in November cold
As we march in ranks and crowds behold
Before cenotaph we bring to mind
All fallen comrades and those left behind
Or alone while reading a name on a wall
We quietly hope no others will fall
Politicians come and then they go
And we wonder if they truly know
What it takes from kin who sit and pray
Please don’t volunteer, don’t go away
But who hug and kiss and say they’ll write
Not blame us for going, as well they might
For we have a choice and we choose to serve
This takes courage, this takes nerve
Reassuring families that we’ll take care
When we know fine well it’s dangerous there
But still we’re needed and so still we go
Long may this continue, let’s hope so
For though volunteers aren’t worth ten other men
At least others aren’t called so often then
And what is asked for the service we give
No high praise or riches if we should live
Just silence from friends, our name on a wall
If this time around, it is I that fall

John Bailey

The paper dove.

Its soft white feathers flutter in the wind,
Gliding gently over fields
And countries torn by war,
It has no idea of the fighting below,

Its soft white feathers flutter in the wind,
Its eyes are heavy,
Visions lie heavy in its mind,
The poppy fields glide past,

Its soft white feathers flutter in the wind,
They feel the blasts,
The pain,
The black mass that engulfs the men,

Its soft white feathers flutter in the wind,
Children crying for their fathers,
After reading letters of loss,
The endless sombre parades,

Its soft white feathers flutter in the wind,
Love lies underneath,
Blood red poppies scattered below,
The folded feathers float onto the poppy fields.

Its soft white feathers flutter in the wind,
Launched by a child, off mountains high,
Watched by millions,
A peace spreader,
A hope bringer,
Only soft white paper feathers fall in the wind,
From The Paper Dove.

Mark
Age 14

Entrenched.

Trembling down in the trench, thinking of nothing but home,
Above I hear a roar, another mine has blown.
There is no turning back, the battle must go on,
Nonetheless it seems to me all meaningless and wrong.

As if one shot from me, will help the war at all,
My task is to 'go o'er the top', to fire and then to fall.
Of course I love my country, but I'm too young to die,
Echoing all around I hear the bitter battle cry.

I wish I hadn't come, I wish I wasn't here,
But it is far too late, and I'm overcome with fear.
I once felt so very proud that I was going to fight,
But how can any man have pride, after seeing this harrowing sight.

I long for freedom, and yet more for peace,
The day when this endless war will cease.
But for now I value every given breath,
For the time draws near when I shall meet my certain death.
Pippa Moss

Wilfred Owen 1893-1918
Biography
Regarded as the greatest of First World War poets, Wilfred Owen was virtually unknown at the time of his death, yet our collective vision of the hell of the Western Front has largely been shaped by his writing.

Owen was born in Oswestry, Shropshire in 1893. Failing to win a scholarship to university, he took an unpaid post as a lay assistant to a vicar near Reading. His interest in the Church would wane, but the language of the Bible would live on in his poetry.

He was in France when war broke out, working as an English tutor, and came back to enlist in 1915. After being trapped underground while fighting at the Somme, in 1917 Owen was invalided back to Craiglockhart Hospital in Edinburgh, suffering shellshock.

There he met the poet Siegfried Sassoon who showed Owen how to channel his nightmarish battlefield flashbacks into his poetry. Their meeting has inspired many books including Pat Barker's Regeneration trilogy. Under Sassoon's influence, the romantic poetry Owen had been writing since his boyhood in imitation of John Keats was transformed. His poems now were vivid with flesh and blood detail, and peppered with explosive fragments of direct speech.

Although he could have avoided a return to the front, Owen felt a pressing duty to record the experiences of his comrades. "All a poet can do today is warn. That is why the true Poets must be truthful," he wrote. Owen was killed in action a week before the war ended, in November 1918. The telegram of his death reached his parents as the bells were ringing out to announce the Armistice.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dulce Et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen.

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind.
Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime ...
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Futility by Wilfred Owen.

Move him into the sun -
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow.
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.
Think how it wakes the seeds, -
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs, so dear-achieved, are sides,
Full-nerved - still warm - too hard to stir?
Was it for this the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Strange Meeting by Wilfred Owen.

It seemed that out of the battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face
was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues
made moan.
"Strange friend," I said, "here is no cause
to mourn."
"None," said the other, "save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,

But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress,
None will break ranks, though nations trek
from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery;
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
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.
Foreheads of men have bled where no
wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark; for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now..."
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~