Page:Poems by Isaac Rosenberg (1922).djvu/126

 Here is one not long dead. His dark hearing caught our far wheels, And the choked soul stretched weak hands To reach the living word the far wheels said; The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light, Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheels Swift for the end to break Or the wheels to break, Cried as the tide of the world broke over his sight, "Will they come? Will they ever come?" Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules, The quivering-bellied mules, And the rushing wheels all mixed With his tortured upturned sight.

So we crashed round the bend, We heard his weak scream, We heard his very last sound, And our wheels grazed his dead face.