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IN THE MORNING
{Loos, 1915.)
The firefly haunts were lighted yet,
As we scaled the top of the parapet; But the East grew pale to another fire,
As our bayonets gleamed by the foeman's wire; And the sky was tinged with gold and grey,
And under our feet the dead men lay, Stiff by the loop-holed barricade ;
Food of the bomb and the hand-grenade ; Still in the slushy pool and mud—
Ah ! the path we came was a path of blood,
When we went to Loos in the morning. 84 |
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