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.

Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem |

Poems are below...