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HE tattered grass of No Man's Land

Is white with snow to-day,

And up and down the deadly slopes

The ghosts of childhood play.

The sentries, peering from the line,

See in the tumbled snow

Light forms that were their little selves

A score of years ago.

We look and see the crumpled drifts

Piled in a little glen.

And you are back in Saxony

And children once again.

From joyous hand to laughing face

We watch the snow-balls fly.

The way they used ere we were men

Waiting our turn to die.