The Dug-Out
Deeper than the daisies in the rubble and the loam,
Wayward as a river the winding trenches roam,
Past bowed, decrepit dug-outs leaning on their props,
Beyond the shattered village where the lightest limber stops;
Through fields untilled and barren, and ripped by shot and shell,—
The bloodstained braes of Souchez, the meadows of Vermelles,
And poppies crown the parapet that rises from the mud—
Where the soldiers' homes—the dug-outs—are built of clay and blood.
Our comrades on the level roofs, the dead men, waste away
Upon the soldiers' frontier homes, the crannies in the clay;
For on the meadows of Vermelles, and all the country round,
The stiff and still stare at the skies, the quick are underground.
Wayward as a river the winding trenches roam,
Past bowed, decrepit dug-outs leaning on their props,
Beyond the shattered village where the lightest limber stops;
Through fields untilled and barren, and ripped by shot and shell,—
The bloodstained braes of Souchez, the meadows of Vermelles,
And poppies crown the parapet that rises from the mud—
Where the soldiers' homes—the dug-outs—are built of clay and blood.
Our comrades on the level roofs, the dead men, waste away
Upon the soldiers' frontier homes, the crannies in the clay;
For on the meadows of Vermelles, and all the country round,
The stiff and still stare at the skies, the quick are underground.
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