Died Of Wounds

His wet white face and miserable eyes 

Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs: 

But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell 

His troubled voice: he did the business well. 

The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining         

And calling out for ‘Dickie’. ‘Curse the Wood! 

‘It’s time to go. O Christ, and what’s the good? 

‘We’ll never take it, and it’s always raining.’ 

I wondered where he’d been; then heard him shout, 

‘They snipe like hell! O Dickie, don’t go out…   

I fell asleep… Next morning he was dead; 

And some Slight Wound lay smiling on the bed.