The War Dead

They shall not hear again or see again

the whistling shell descend

nor hear artillery unnerve the night

wider than hope could mend;

nor turn unloved upon a foreign ground

feeling the damp press up,

hearing the iterating minutes fall

as from a shattered tap.

Sense like a scared rabbit killed in leaping

having fled their jagged flesh,

they would have to learn all over again to scream

and to reweave too intricate a mesh.