Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/104

62 "Toward that patch of brown,

Direction left." Bullets: a stream.

Devouring thought crying in a dream;

Men, crumpled, going down

Go on. Go.

Deafness, Numbness. The loudening tornado

Bullets. Mud. Stumbling and skating.

My voice's strangled shout:—

"Steady pace, boys!"

The still light: gladness.

"Look, sir, look out!—"

Ha! Ha! Bunched figures waiting.

Revolver levelled: quick!

Flick! Flick!

Red as blood.

Germans. Germans.

Good! Oh, good!

Cool madness.

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