Page:Poems of the Great War - Cunliffe.djvu/319

 Seven to one they came against us to shatter us

and drowTi, One to seven in the woodland we fought them up and

down. In the sad November woodland, when all the skies

were mourning.

The long battle thundered till a waxing moon might wane,

Thrice they broke the exhausted line that held them on the plain,

And thrice like billows they went back, from view- less bounds retiring.

\Miy paused they and went backward, With never a foe before Like a long wave dragging Down a level shore Its fierce reluctant surges, that came triumphant

storming The land, and powers invisible drive to its deep

returning ? On the grey field of Flanders again and yet again The Huns beheld the Great Reserves on the old

battle-plain. The blood-red field of Flanders, where all the skies were mourning.

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