The Last Post

 The bugler sent a call of high romance— 
“Lights out! Lights out!” to the deserted square.
 
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer, 
“God, if it’s this for me next time in France… 
O spare the phantom bugle as I lie
Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns, 
Dead in a row with the other broken ones 
Lying so stiff and still under the sky, 
Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die.
”

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