The paratrooper
clad in chlorophyllic green
stoic in resolve he leaps
jettisoned from lofty perch
spiraling in space
tumbling through time.
Airborne
born into the air
delivered to the dirt
he dies, decomposes
a casualty of consequence
body brown and rotting in the rain.

Wars are waged and seasons change
and the world spins on in spite of all.

Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon."
Said the old man, "I do that too."
The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants."
"I do that too," laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, "I often cry."
The old man nodded, "So do I."
"But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems
Grown-ups don't pay attention to me."
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
"I know what you mean," said the little old man.

A month ago I sat in class
in a New England School for boys
Now, I'm in a bomber group
Adjusting to the noise

I made plans for Harvard
A doctor, I would be
Then my life would turn
In a way I didn't see

The war was on in Europe
We saw in the press
But, 18 days before Christmas
we were pulled into the mess

Future plans were put aside
Our country we'd support
We'd forget all of our future thoughts
We'd join, though not for sport

We signed up down in Boston
Young men flyers, soldiers all
Preparing for a battle
Many would not live till fall

We thought not of our future
Our present, all we had
Many dead by Christmas next
The thought is truly sad

You do not what you want to
But, what needs to be done
You go from boy to man so fast
You've barely walked...now run

Think back on those who made it
Remember who did not
Young men they are forever
They deserve a longer thought

The air is pure and holy
It is scattered with young souls
Boys, now men who went to war
And put aside their goals

XLIII

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints,—I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life!—and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.