Просто наткнулась на стихотворение, посвященное Эдварду Бриттену.
И опять стало грустно.

CAPTAIN EDWARD BRITTAIN: 16 JUNE 1918, NORTHERN ITALY, AT 22 YEARS OLD

Yes, I loved him, a dark-eyed Sherwood lad.
You always knew it would be one like him:
At nineteen a corporal, cap this side of mad.
Peace would have rated our chances slim
For love, but he was innocent of sad
Charades - his life was still a school day hymn -
And in the thud, bloody thud, rat-a-tat making
War, he'd hold me tenderly to stop me shaking.

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