Robert W. Service,
Rhymes of a Red-Cross Man — The Mourners
(1916)
“ I look across the mist that masks the dead; The moon is tired and gives but little light, The stars have gone to bed.The earth is sick and seems to breathe with pain; A lost wind whimpers in a mangled tree; I do not see the foul, corpse-cluttered plain, The dead I do not see. ”
