I shall not see them sweating at that task:

It was too much of any man to ask;

The death that gets you certain, soon or late;

Meanwhile the mess, the mud, the noise, the hate.

But I shall see through bandages the white

Cheeks round the gun-barrel, and then night.

Was it cowardice from fight’s short shock to creep

Into a nightmare of eternal sleep;

My only fault that I misjudged my spirit

And volunteered, and now disgrace inherit?

Still will bombardment fill the noisy sky,

Still will old comrades fight and wonder why;

But soon they’ll join me — those that I out-raced,

Reaching the goal too early, and disgraced.

The flower of sleep will blow on either grave

And wheat frequent the coward as the brave,

Disliking only where the trenches ploughed

And ordnance delved, the fiery liquids flowed,

Where war’s red feet his wicked winepress trod,

An outrage on the peaceful hopes of God.