A FRENCH CAPTAIN
Three wounds. . . he was so weak . . . just to let go
The grip of will on torn and weary flesh—
For then would come a silence . . . and long sleep . . .
And when he waked—if waking was for him—
Then he could fight again . . . but now—O God!
Only to slip to earth a little while
And lose the shattering tumult of the guns!
But something in his heart would not let go,
Something that thudded in his ringing ears
"For France! For France! For France!" He struggled on
Bleeding, unconquered—and unconquerable,
For when the bullet struck him in the breast
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