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World WarsThe Unspeakable Turk
Although the great issues of the war were decided, and victor...
The Soldiers Who Go To Sea
If the army or the navy ever gaze on Heaven's scenes, Th...
When the last gun has long withheld Its thunder, and i...
Waiting For The Flash
Not at once can the mind grasp the full significance of the w...
A Carol From Flanders
1914 In Flanders on the Christmas morn The trench...
Just Before The Tide Turned
On the 27th of last May the Germans broke through the French ...
Where The Four Winds Meet
There are songs of the north and songs of the south, A...
The Miner And The Tiger
On an October day in 1866, David Lloyd George, then a little ...
The first poet and author in the American army to give up his...
On slight pretext, Germany in 1864 and in 1866 had made wars ...
Political morality differs from individual morality, because ...
Fighting A Depth Bomb
All who have read of the sinking of the Lusitania, by a torpe...
America Comes In
We are coming from the ranch, from the city and the mine, ...
The Really Invincible Armada
The northern coast of Scotland is about as far north as the s...
The Lost Battalion
On December 24, 1918, Lieutenant Colonel Charles W. Whittlese...
Blocking The Channel
Bruges is an important city of Belgium made familiar to Ameri...
Where Are You Going Great-heart?
Where are you going, Great-Heart, With your eager face...
The Thirteenth Regiment
The World War has shown clearly that all peoples are not alik...
Nations Born And Reborn
In America, and in many other countries, people have listened...
America Enters The War
SPEECH BY LLOYD GEORGE, BRITISH PREMIER, APRIL 12, 1917 ...
The Little Old Road
There's a breath of May in the breeze
On the little old road;
May in hedges and trees,
May, the red and the white,
May to left and to right,
Of the little old road.
There's a ribbon of grass either side
Of the little old road;
It's a strip just so wide,
A strip nobody owns,
Where a man's weary bones
When he feels getting old
May lie crushing the gold
Of the silverweed flower
For a long lazy hour
By the little old road.
There's no need to guide the old mare
On the little old road.
She knows that just there
Is the big gravel pit
(How we played in it
As mites of boys
In our corduroys!)
And that here is the pond
With the poplars beyond,
And more May--always May,
Away and away
Down the little old road.
There's a lot to make a man glad
On the little old road
(It's the home-going road),
And a lot to make him sad.
Ah! he'd like to forget,
But he can't, not just yet,
With chaps still out there. . . .
She's stopping, the steady old mare.
Is it here the road bends?
So the long journey ends
At the end of the old road,
The little old road.
There's some one, you say, at the gate
Of the little old house by the road?
Is it Mother? Or Kate?
And they're not going to mind
That, since Wypers,  I'm blind,
And the road is a long dark road?
 The Battle of Ypres.
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