Of those days in France is mainly
One big blur of mingled P.T.,
Arm drill, long straight roads and marches.
Many miles my Tiadatha
Tramped along those endless highways.
Endless as a winter’s evening,
Straighter than the wife of Cæsar,
Fringed with trees all apple-laden,
Apple-laden till the Dudshires
Had a short fall-out beneath them.