IN THE PINK

So Davies wrote: “This leaves me in the pink.”

Then scrawled his name: “Your loving sweetheart, Willie.”

With crosses for a hug. He'd had a drink

Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly,

For once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend.

Winter was passing; soon the year would mend.

He could n't sleep that night. Stiff in the dark

He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm,

When he'd go out as cheerful as a lark

In his best suit to wander arm-in-arm

With brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear

The simple, silly things she liked to hear.

And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge

Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten.

Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge,

And everything but wretchedness forgotten.

To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die.

And still the war goes on; he do n't know why.