Above, the sky is very grey, the world is very damp,
His light the sun denies by day, the moon by night her lamp;
Across the landscape soaked and sad the dull guns answer back,
And through the twilight's futile hush spasmodic rifles crack.
The papers haven't come to-day to show how England feels;
The hours go lame and languidly between our Spartan meals;
We've written letters till we're tired, with not a thing to tell
Except that nothing's doing, weather beastly, writer well.
So when you feel for us out here—as well I know you will—
Then sympathise with thousands for their country sitting still;