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Poem	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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