Down in the hollow there?s the whole Brigade 
Camped in four groups: through twilight falling slow 
I hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played, 
And murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low. 
Crouched among thistle-tufts I?ve watched the glow
Of a blurred orange sunset flare and fade; 
And I?m content. To-morrow we must go 
To take some cursèd Wood ... O world God made! 


July 3rd, 1916.