Died of Wounds
His wet white face and miserable eyes
Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs:
But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell
His troubled voice: he did the business well.
The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining
And calling out for ‘Dickie’.
‘Curse the Wood!
‘It’s time to go.
O Christ, and what’s the good?
‘We’ll never take it, and it’s always raining.
I wondered where he’d been; then heard him shout,
‘They snipe like hell! O Dickie, don’t go out.
I fell asleep .
Next morning he was dead;
And some Slight Wound lay smiling on the bed.