The bullets whistled over;
Our sudden dead lay still;
And the mad machine-gun chatter drove us fighting-wild to kill.
Then the death-light lit our faces,
And the death-mist floated red
O’er the crimson cratered places
Where his outposts crouched in dread....
And we stabbed or clubbed them as they crouched; and shot them as they fled;
And floundered, torn and bleeding,
Over trenches, through the wire,