That soak the woods; not the harsh rain that sweeps

Behind the thunder, but a trickling peace

Gently and slowly washing life away.

* * * * *

He stirred, shifting his body; then the pain

Leaped like a prowling beast, and gripped and tore

His groping dreams with grinding claws and fangs.

But some one was beside him; soon he lay

Shuddering because that evil thing had passed.

And Death, who’d stepped toward him, paused and stared.

Light many lamps and gather round his bed.

Lend him your eyes, warm blood, and will to live.

Speak to him; rouse him; you may save him yet.

He’s young; he hated war; how should he die

When cruel old campaigners win safe through?

But Death replied: “I choose him.” So he went,

And there was silence in the summer night;

Silence and safety; and the veils of sleep.

Then, far away, the thudding of the guns.

79