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60 THE EVERYDAY OF WAR
The sister wraps my bandage again,
Oh, gentle the sister's hand, But the smart of a restless longing, vain,
She cannot understand.
At night I can see the trench once more,
And the dug-out candle lit, The shadows it throws on wall and floor
Form and flutter and flit. Over the trenches the night-shades fall
And the questing bullet pings, And a brazier glows by the dug-out wall,
Where the bubbling mess-tin sings.
I dream of the long, white, sleepy night Where the fir-lined roadway runs
Up to the shell-scarred fields of fight And the loud-voiced earnest guns ; |
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