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Died of Wounds

by
 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.

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