Will they never fade or pass! 
The mud, and the misty figures endlessly coming 
In file through the foul morass, 
And the grey flood-water ripping the reeds and grass, 
And the steel wings drumming. 

The hills are bright in the sun: 
There's nothing changed or marred in the well-known places; 
When work for the day is done 
There's talk, and quiet laughter, and gleams of fun 
On the old folks' faces. 

I have returned to these: 
The farm, and the kindly Bush, and the young calves lowing; 
But all that my mind sees 
Is a quaking bog in a mist - stark, snapped trees, 
And the dark Somme flowing.