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Poem	Under his helmet, up against his pack, After the many days of work and waking, Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back. And in the happy no-time of his sleeping, Death took him by the heart. There was a quaking Of the aborted life within him leaping ... Then chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack. And soon the slow, stray blood came creeping From the intrusive lead, like ants on track. * * * Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars, High pillowed on calm pillows of God's making Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead, And these winds' scimitars; --Or whether yet his thin and sodden head Confuses more and more with the low mould, His hair being one with the grey grass And finished fields of autumns that are old ... Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass! He sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold Than we who must awake, and waking, say Alas!
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