The Randomness of War Poetry

I have a rendezvous with death on some scarred slope of battered hill when spring comes round again this year and the first meadow flowers appear. World war one poetry is not about death taking your hand and leading you into his dark land closing your eyes and quenching your breath it's often much more graphic and shocking and unpleasant than that. The speaker here I'd be worried if I was in the french foreign legion fighting next to this guy because his view of death seems not very based on reality and there seems to be almost a longing in him.