Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/147

 XXXIX

UR guns are a league behind us, our target a mile below,

And there's never a cloud to blind us from the haunts of our lurking foe—

Sunk pit whence his shrapnel tore us, support-trench crest concealed,

As clear as the charts before us, his ramparts lie revealed.

His panicked watchers spy us, a droning threat in the void;

Their whistling shells outfly us—puff upon puff, deployed

Across the green beneath us, across the flanking grey,

In fume and fire to sheath us and baulk us of our prey.

Before, beyond, above her,

Their iron web is spun:

Flicked but unsnared we hover,

Edged planes against the sun:

Eyes in the air above his lair,

The hawks that guide the gun!

No word from earth may reach us, save, white against the ground,

The strips outspread to teach us whose ears are deaf to sound: 105