At Carnoy

 Down in the hollow there’s the whole Brigade 
Camped in four groups: through twilight falling slow 
I hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played, 
And murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low.
 
Crouched among thistle-tufts I’ve watched the glow
Of a blurred orange sunset flare and fade; 
And I’m content.
 To-morrow we must go 
To take some curs?d Wood .
.
.
 O world God made!

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