Here's the Canal: it's dusk; we cross the bridge. "_Lead on there by platoons._" The Line's a-glare With shell-fire through the poplars; distant rattle Of rifles and machine-guns. "_Fritz is there! Christ, ain't it lively, Sergeant? Is't a battle?_" More rain: the lightning blinks, and thunder rumbles. "There's overhead artillery," some chap grumbles. "_What's all this mob, by the cross-road?_" (The guides).... "_Lead on with Number One_" (And off they go.) "_Three-minute intervals._" ... Poor blundering files, Sweating and blindly burdened; who's to know If death will catch them in those two dark miles? (More rain.) "_Lead on, Headquarters._" (That's the lot.) "_Who's that? O, Sergeant-major; don't get shot! And tell me, have we won this war or not?_" THE DUG-OUT Why do you lie with your legs ungainly huddled, And one arm bent across your sullen cold Exhausted face? It hurts my heart to watch you, Deep-shadow'd from the candle's guttering gold; And you wonder why I shake you by the shoulder; Drowsy, you mumble and sigh and turn your head.... _You are too young to fall asleep for ever; And when you sleep you remind me of the dead._ THE REAR-GUARD (Hindenburg Line, April 1917.) Groping along the tunnel, step by step, He winked his prying torch with patching glare From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air. Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know, A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed; And he, exploring fifty feet below The rosy gloom of battle overhead. Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw some one lie Humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug, And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug. "I'm looking for headquarters." No reply. "God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep,) "Get up and guide me through this stinking place." Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap, And flashed his beam across the livid face Terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore Agony dying hard ten days before; And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound. Alone he staggered on until he found Dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair To the dazed, muttering creatures underground Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound. At last, with sweat of horror in his hair, He climbed through darkness to the twilight air, Unloading hell behind him step by step. I STOOD WITH THE DEAD I stood with the Dead, so forsaken and still: When dawn was grey I stood with the Dead. And my slow heart said, "You must kill; you must kill: Soldier, soldier, morning is red." On the shapes of the slain in their crumpled disgrace I stared for a while through the thin cold rain.... "O lad that I loved, there is rain on your face, And your eyes are blurred and sick like the plain." I stood with the Dead.... They were dead; they were dead; My heart and my head beat a march of dismay; And gusts of the wind came dulled by the guns.... "Fall in!" I shouted; "Fall in for your pay!" SUICIDE IN TRENCHES