Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/96

 XXV

1. Noon

T is midday; the deep trench glares

A buzz and blaze of flies

The hot wind puffs the giddy airs

The great sun rakes the skies.

No sound in all the stagnant trench

Where forty standing men

Endure the sweat and grit and stench,

Like cattle in a pen.

Sometimes a sniper's bullet whirs

Or twangs the whining wire,

Sometimes a soldier sighs and stirs

As in hell's frying fire.

From out a high, cool cloud descends

An aeroplane's far moan,

The sun strikes down, the thin cloud rends

The black speck travels on.

54