I |
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| Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us . . . | |
| Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . . | |
| Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient . . . | |
| Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous, | |
| But nothing happens. | 5 |
| Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire. | |
| Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles. | |
| Northward incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles, | |
| Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war. | |
| What are we doing here? | 10 |
| The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow . . . | |
| We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy. | |
| Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army | |
| Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray, | |
| But nothing happens. | 15 |
| Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. | |
| Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, | |
| With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew, | |
| We watch them wandering up and down the wind’s nonchalance, | |
| But nothing happens. | 20 |
II |
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| Pale flakes with lingering stealth come feeling for our faces — | |
| We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed, | |
| Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed, | |
| Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses. | |
| Is it that we are dying? | 25 |
| Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires glozed | |
| With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there; | |
| For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs; | |
| Shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed — | |
| We turn back to our dying. | 30 |
| Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn; | |
| Now ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit. | |
| For God’s invincible spring our love is made afraid; | |
| Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born, | |
| For love of God seems dying. | 35 |
| To-night, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, | |
| Shrivelling many hands and puckering foreheads crisp. | |
| The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp, | |
| Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, | |
| But nothing happens. | 40 |
| east — For a British soldier, the German enemy was generally to the east of his position. | |
| glozed — minimized or suppressed | |
| loath — reluctant (not to be confused with the verb loathe, which means to despise) | |