And here is the same foreshadowing in Ewart Alan Mackintosh's 'Ghosts of War';
When you and I are buried
With grasses over our head,
The memory of our fights will stand
Above this bare and tortured land
We knew ere we were dead....
If men with hope and happiness to lose could thus calmly abjure it all without a tremor, it is the less to be wondered at that others who have made a waste of life and are burdened with shame and remorse, like the soldier pictured in W. H. Littlejohn's dramatic lyric 'To S——, A Man who Died Bravely,' should see a way of redemption in the sacrifice of self for the saving of the world and take the road to death glad in the certainty of gaining life by losing it:
I have plucked a blowing rosebud, and I trailed it in the mire,
I have left a spirit's temple frail grey ashes of dead fire,
—I have made a saintly woman plaything of a foul desire.
