Over the flat slope of St. Eloi A wide wall of sand bags. Night, In the silence desultory men Pottering over small fires, cleaning their mess-tins: To and fro, from the lines, Men walk as on Piccadilly, Making paths in the dark, Through scattered dead horses, Over a dead Belgian's belly. The Germans have rockets. The English have no rockets. Behind the line, cannon hidden, lying back miles. Before the line, chaos: My mind is a corridor. The minds about me are corridors. Nothing suggests itself. There is nothing to do but keep on. |