HE'D scarcely come from leave and London, Still was carrying a leather case, When he surprised Headquarters pillbox And sat down sweating in the filthy place. He was a tall, lean, pale-looked creature, With nerves that seldom ceased to wince, Past war had long preyed on his nature, And war had doubled in horror since. There was a lull, the adjutant even Came to my hole: You cheerful sinner, If nothing happens till half-past seven, Come over then, we're going to have dinner. Back he went with his fierce red head; We were sourly canvassing his jauntiness, when Something happened at headquarters pillbox. "Don't go there," cried one of my men. The shell had struck right into the doorway, The smoke lazily floated away; There were six men in that concrete doorway, Now a black muckheap blocked the way. Inside, one who had scarcely shaken The air of England out of his lungs Was alive, and sane; it shall be spoken While any of those who were there have tongues. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOON RIVER ANTHOLOGY: PETIT THE POET by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE HOUSE OF LIFE: 91. LOST ON BOTH SIDES by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI ODE: INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY FROM RECOLLECTIONS OF EARLY CHILDHOOD by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH THE SONG THAT SHALL ATONE by KATHARINE LEE BATES |