1915

I’ve watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow,  

In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune;  

Primroses and the first warm day of Spring,  

Red poppy floods of June,  

August, and yellowing Autumn, so          

To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow,  

And you’ve been everything.  

Dear, you’ve been everything that I most lack  

In these soul-deadening trenches—pictures, books,  

Music, the quiet of an English wood,    

Beautiful comrade-looks,  

The narrow, bouldered mountain-track,  

The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black,  

And Peace, and all that’s good.