War Poetry....

Through the driving sleet
he saw no movement.

Shifting, foot to foot,
thick mud beneath.

Dark, wet, and cold,
So very very cold.

And when his watch
at last was done.

In that cold wet mud he lay,
and in an instant, asleep.


For Whom the Bell Tolls
by John Donne

No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.

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