Since I'm thinking about Georg Trakl. He died shortly after the outbreak of war (in which he served) in 1914.
Seven-Song of Death, Georg Trakl writes;
There I am alone with my murderer.
Sink through the waterís surface to a place
where folk speak German. Siebengesang des Todes.
This is a land for mustard gas, for All
Quiet on the Western Front, Im Westen
nichts Neues. Itís a land of pine and tall
cathedral spires, like Freiburg. To the East,
the German ambit. To the West, the Rhine.
And in the little villages, the clock
tells out the hour. The raven says its name.