But we, by swamp and flood,
Through mirk and night—his shells for light—
Blaspheming, choked with mud,
Roped to the tilting axles,
Man-handled up the crest;
And wrenched our plunging gun-teams
Foam-flecked from jowl to breast,
Downwards, and on, where trench-lights shone—
For we, we might not rest!
Shell-deafened; soaked and sleepless;