BARB-WIRE POSTS.

Five o‘ clock; the shadows fall

In mist and gloom and cloud;

And No Man's Land is a sullen waste,

Wrapped in a sodden shroud;

And the click of Big Mac's moving foot

Is a dangerous noise and loud.

Ten o'clock; the wind moans low —

Each tree is a phantom gray:

And the wired posts are silent ghosts

That move with a drunken sway;

( But never a gleam in No Man's Land

Till the dawn of another day ).

Twelve o‘ clock; the heavens yawn

Like the mouth of a chasm deep;

And see — that is n't the fence out there —

It's a Boche — and he stoops to creep —

I'll take a shot — oh hell, a post —

( Oh God, for a wink o’ sleep ).

Two o‘ clock; the cold wet fog

Bears down in dripping banks:

Ah, here they come — the dirty hounds —

In swinging, serried ranks!

Why do n't the automatics start?...

Or do my eyes play pranks?

It does n't seem a column now,

But just two sneaking there:

And one is climbing over,

While the other of the pair

Is clipping at the wires

With exasperating care.

( I'm sober as a gray-beard judge

I'm calm as the morning dew —

I'm wide awake and I'll stake

My eyes with the best of you;

But I can n't explain just how or why

Posts do the things they do. )

Three o'clock; they're on the move —

Well, let the beggars come....

A crash — a hush — a spiral shriek —

And a noise like a big bass drum —

( I hope that Hun shot has n't found

Our kitchen and the slum ).

Five o'clock; the first faint streak

Of a leaden dawn lifts gray;

And the barb-wire posts are sightless ghosts

That swagger, click and sway,

And seem to grin, in their blood-stained sin,

In a most unpleasant way.