The ranks opened covertly to avoid the corpse. The invulnerable dead man forced a way for himself. The youth looked keenly at the ashen face. The wind raised the tawny beard. It moved as if a hand were stroking it. He vaguely desired to walk around and around the body and stare; the impulse of the living to try to read in dead eyes the answer to the Question.
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky And the affrighted steed ran on alone, Do not weep.War is kind.Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment, Little souls who thirst for fight, These men were born to drill and die.The unexplained glory flies above them, Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom -A field where a thousand corpses lie.Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
The correspondent wondered ingenuously how in the name of all that was sane could there be people who thought it amusing to row a boat. It was not an amusement; it was a diabolical punishment, and even a genius of mental aberrations could never conclude that it was anything but a horror to the muscles and a crime against the back.