# Died Of Wounds

His wet, white face and miserable eyes

Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs:

But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell

His troubled voice: he did the business well.

The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining,

And calling out for “Dickie.” “Curse the Wood!

It’s time to go; O Christ, and what’s the good?—

We’ll never take it; and it’s always raining.”

I wondered where he’d been; then heard him shout,

“They snipe like hell! O Dickie, don’t go out”…

I fell asleep… next morning he was dead;

And some Slight Wound lay smiling on his bed.

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