The Great War

from War Daubs: Poems, an electronic edition


Think not of me as facing death,

Tattered, labouring for breath ;

Rather think of one who strays

Dreaming dreams by perfumed ways.

Soon I may die, ah ! true, 'tis true :

But look ! the night is rich with blue

Of peaceful skies, and soft the breeze

Sings in the trembling poplar trees.

And slowly thro' the rustling grass

O'er woodland glade, I, dreaming, pass:

To-morrow? Death? Ah! what are these

But passing childish phantasies.