At Carnoy

by
 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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