PAST the marching men, where the great road runs,

Out of burning Ypres the pale women came:

One was a widow (listen to the guns!)--

She wheeled a heaped--up barrow. One walked lame

And dragged two little children at her side

Tired and coughing with the dust.

The third

Nestled a dead child on her breast and tried

To suckle him. They never spoke a word.

So they came down along the Ypres road.

A soldier stayed his mirth to watch them pass,

Turned and in silence helped them with their load,

And led them to a field and gave them bread.

I saw them hide their faces in the grass

And cry, as women might when Christ was dead.