| "They are bringing them back who went forth so bravely. |
| Grey, ghostlike cars down the long white road |
| Come gliding, each with its cross of scarlet |
| On canvas hood, and its heavy load |
| Of human sheaves from the crimson harvest |
That greed and falsehood and hatred sowed.
|
| "Maimed and blinded and torn and shattered, |
| Yet with hardly a groan or a cry |
| From lips as white as the linen bandage; |
| Though a stifled prayer 'God let me die,' |
| Is wrung, maybe, from a soul in torment |
As the car with the blood-red cross goes by.
|
| "Oh, Red Cross car! What a world of anguish |
| On noiseless wheels you bear night and day. |
| Each one that comes from the field of slaughter |
| Is a moving Calvary, painted grey. |
| And over the water, at home in England |
'Let's play at soldiers,' the children say."
|
Anon.