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H4 A SOLDIER'S PRAYER
He sees the churchyard delved by shells, the
tombstones flung about, And dead men's skulls, and white, white bones
the shells have shovelled out; The trenches running line by line through
meadow fields of green, The bayonets on the parapets, the wasting
flesh between; Around Givenchy's ruined church the levels,
poppy-red, Are set apart for silent hosts, the legions of
the dead.
And when at night on sentry-go, with danger
keeping tryst, I see upon the crucifix the blood-stained form
of Christ |
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