4. Return — 1917

I was just aiming at the jagged hole

Torn in the yellow sandbags of their trench,

When something threw me sideways with a wrench,

And the skies seemed to shrivel like a scroll

And disappear... and propped against the bole

Of a big elm I lay, and watched the clouds

Float through the blue, deep sky in speckless crowds,

And I was clean again, and young, and whole.

Lord, what a dream that was! And what a doze

Waiting for Bill to come along to class!

I've cut it now — and he — Oh, hello, Fred!

Why, what's the matter? — here — do n't be an ass,

Sit down and tell me! — What do you suppose?

I dreamed I... AM I... wounded? “YOU ARE DEAD.”