First Snow in Alsace

First Snow in Alsace -- Richard Wilbur

The snow came down last night like moths Burned on the moon; it fell till dawn, Covered the town with simple cloths.

Absolute snow lies rumpled on What shellbursts scattered and deranged, Entangled railings, crevassed lawn.

As if it did not know they'd changed, Snow smoothly clasps the roofs of homes Fear-gutted, trustless and estranged.

The ration stacks are milky domes; Across the ammunition pile The snow has climbed in sparkling combs.

You think: beyond the town a mile Or two, this snowfall fills the eyes Of soldiers dead a little while.

Persons and persons in disguise, Walking the new air white and fine, Trade glances quick with shared surprise.

At children's windows, heaped, benign, As always, winter shines the most, And frost makes marvelous designs.

The night guard coming from his post, Ten first-snows back in thought, walks slow And warms him with a boyish boast:

He was the first to see the snow.

Richard Wilbur The Man He Killed -- Thomas Hardy

"Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have sat us down to wet Right many a nipperkin!

"But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at him and he at me, And killed him in his place.

"I shot him dead because – Because he was my foe, Just so – my foe of course he was; That's clear enough; although

"He thought he'd 'list perhaps, Off-hand like – just as I – Was out of work – had sold his traps – No other reason

"Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down You'd treat if met where any bar is, Or help to half-a-crown."

The Man In The Dead Machine

-- Donald Hall

High on a slope in New Guinea The Grumman Hellcat lodges among bright vines as thick as arms. In 1943, the clenched hand of a pilot glided it here where no one has ever been.

In the cockpit, the helmeted skeleton sits upright, held by dry sinews at neck and shoulder, and webbing that straps the pelvic cross to the cracked leather of the seat, and the breastbone to the canvas cover of the parachute.

Or say the shrapnel missed him, he flew back to the carrier, and every morning takes the train, his pale hands on the black case, and sits upright, held by the firm webbing.

Fighting South of the Wall -- Li Po (700s AD)

Last year we fought where the Sang-kan flows, this year it was Onion River Road.

We’ve washed our swords in the Eastern Sea, grazed our horses on T’ien Shan’s snowy side.

A thousand miles are not enough for this war, our armies grow old in their armor.

Husbandmen of slaughter, the Huns have sown the yellow desert with our bones.

Long ago the Ch’in built the Great Wall, now it’s the Han who light the signal-beacon.

All night long the flames flicker, year in year out, the war goes on.

Bright swords flash, brave men fall and die, riderless horses whinny at the sky.

Kites and crows pluck out the guts, hang them high on the withered trees. Soldiers smear their blood on the dry grass while generals map the next campaign.

Wise men know winning a war is no better than losing one.