Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/281

 Rh THE BUGLER

ON poisonous clod,

(Look! I could touch it with my stick!) that lies

In the next ulcer of this shell-pock'd land

To that which holds me now;

Yon carrion, with its devil-swarm of flies

That scorn the protest of the limp, cold hand,

Seeming half-rais'd to shield the matted brow;

Those festering rags whose colour mocks the sod;

And, O ye gods, those eyes!

Those staring, staring eyes!