Save those rows of wooden crosses keeping silent custody.
There’s a band of quiet workers, artless lads who joked and chatted
Just this morning; now they’re sullen and they keep their eyes away
From the blanket-hidden body, coat and shirt all blood-bespattered,
Lying motionless and waiting by the new-turned heap of clay.
There are records in the office—date of death and facts pertaining,
Showing name and rank and number and disposal of the kit—
More or less a business matter, and we have no time for feigning
More than momentary pity for the men who have been hit.
There’s a patient mother gazing on her hopes so surely shattered