Those thirsty stretches where the rest-camps were,
Then to the sea slunk on, a trifle daunted
By wreathéd wires and every sort of snare,
And came at last, incredulous, to find
The very beach all blasphemously mined.
Now on each hand he eyes our impious labels,
Bond Street and Regent Street, those weary ways;
Here stands the Pink Farm, with the broken gables,
Here Oxford Circus marks a winding maze;
But most, I ween, in scarred grave-ridden regions