  After a week spent under raining skies, In horror, mud and sleeplessness, a week Of bursting shells, of blood and hideous cries And the ever-watchful sniper: where the reek Of death offends the living ... but poor dead Can't sleep, must lie awake with the horrid sound That roars and whirs and rattles overhead All day, all night, and jars and tears the ground; When rats run, big as kittens: to and fro They dart, and scuffle with their horrid fare, And then one night relief comes, and we go Miles back into the sunny cornland where Babies like tickling, and where tall white horses Draw the plough leisurely in quiet courses. |
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