I in the library, <br />Looking for books to read, <br />Pulled one out twice to see <br />If it fulfilled my need. <br />Butler had written this <br />Autobiography. <br />Which of the Butlers, then? <br />I opened it to see. <br />He's an old general <br />Mounted upon a horse. <br />Thinkers don't write their lives, <br />But soldiers can, of course. <br />They write: 'The regiment <br />Was sent to Omdurman, <br />Where Gordon died. To catch <br />The Mahdi was our plan.' <br />Later—'The bride wore white <br />And she had golden hair. <br />Four bridesmaids bore her train <br />Up to the altar where <br />His Grace of Birmingham'— <br />It's the old rigmarole, <br />Names, facts and dates—no word <br />In this about the soul. <br />No dreams, no sin, no tears! <br />Only the body thrives. <br />Upon such worthless things <br />Great soldiers base their lives. <br />No wonder wars are fought. <br />Loss of such life is small, <br />Life bound to space and time, <br />Not infinite at all.<br /><br />Lesbia Harford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-psychological-craze/
