And mute upon the crucifix He looks upon it all,
The great white Christ, the shrapnel-scourged, upon the eastern wall.
He sees the churchyard delved by shells, the tombstones flung about,
The dead men's skulls and yellow bones the shells have shovelled out,
The trenches running line by line through meadow fields of green,
The bayonets on the parapets, the wasting flesh between—
Around Givenchy's ruined church the levels, poppy red,
Are set apart for silent hosts, the legions of the dead.
And when at night on sentry-go, with danger keeping tryst,
I see upon the crucifix the blood-stained form of Christ