Page:Poems of the Great War - Cunliffe.djvu/117

 And e\er the type-keys chatter ; and ever our keen

wires bring Word from the watchers a-crouch below, word from

the watchers a-wing : And ever we hear the distant growl of our hid guns

thundering.

Hear it hardly, and turn again to our maps, where the trench-lines crawl,

Red on the gray and each with a sign for the rang- ing shrapnel's fall —

Snakes that our masters shall scotch at dawn, as is written here on the wall.

For the weeks of our waiting draw to a close. . . . There is scarcely a leaf astir

In the garden beyond my windows, where the twilight shadows blurr

The blaze of some woman's roses. . . . "Bom- bardment orders, sir."

— Gilbert Frankau.

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