The raging curses, and the strange mad lust
Of slaughter, all we know; and how the breath
Sobs out in troublous gasps; and with each thrust
The bayonet claims a bloody gift for death.
And in the end what guerdon shall we reap?
To tend the wounded, for the dead to weep?
The Aftermath
NOT yet the end of toil. The trench is won.
Though short and splendid was the bloody fight
With steel and bomb, and though the Huns in flight
Slunk swifter through the dark than does the sun,
We cannot rest, our work is scarce begun;
We must make good the trench, ere morning light
The Huns will come again in greater might.
No end to toil, no rest for anyone.
Thrice lucky we, who live to fight again,
For Death was busy 'mongst the young and brave,
Yet lucky they who wait a soldier's grave,
For some blind Death has made the guests of Pain
To tend awhile. Would Death had swiftly ta'en
The fair young lives he had no mind to save!
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