HOW TO DIE
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ark clouds are smouldering into redWhile down the craters morning burns.The dying soldier shifts his headTo watch the glory that returns:He lifts his fingers toward the skiesWhere holy brightness breaks in flame;Radiance reflected in his eyes,And on his lips a whispered name. You'd think, to hear some people talk,That lads go West with sobs and curses,And sullen faces white as chalk,Hankering for wreaths and tombs and hearses.But they've been taught the way to do itLike Christian soldiers; not with hasteAnd shuddering groans; but passing through itWith due regard for decent taste.
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