“ A patient crowd along the sodden grass, Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear. The road goes crawling up a long hillside, All ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs Of battle thrown in heaps. Here where they died Are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs; And dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight, Stare up at caverned darkness winking white. You in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling Jock, You tottered here and fell, and stumbled on, Half dazed for want of sleep. No dream could mock Your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone. ”
