I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed ! - Percy Bysshe Shelley

I never thought before my death to see Youth's vision thus made perfect.

What softer voice is hushed over the dead? Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown? What form leans sadly o'er the white death — bed, In mockery of monumental stone, The heavy heart heaving without a moan?

Man has no right to kill his brother, it is no excuse that he does so in uniform. He only adds the infamy of servitude to the crime of murder.