And the wind upon its way whispered the boughs of May, And touched the nodding peony flowers to bid them waken.

Man, it seemed, had been created to jab the life out of Germans.

And the wind upon its way whispered the boughs of May, And touched the nodding peony flowers to bid them waken.

Let my soul, a shining tree, Silver branches lift towards thee, Where on a hallowed winter's night The clear-eyed angels may alight.

Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land, drawing no dividend from time's tomorrows.

But I've grown thoughtful now. And you have lost Your early-morning freshness of surprise At being so utterly mine: you've learned to fear The gloomy, stricken places in my soul, And the occasional ghosts that haunt my gaze.

Who's this—alone with stone and sky? It's only my old dog and I— It's only him; it's only me; Alone with stone and grass and tree. What share we most—we two together? Smells, and awareness of the weather. What is it makes us more than dust? My trust in him; in me his trust.