On gorgeous evenings over Imbros' Isle,
While up the hill that maxim will keep popping,
And the men sing, and camp-fires wink awhile,
And in the scrub the glow-worms glow like stars,
But (hopeless creatures) will not light cigars;
Nor daylong linger in our delvéd lodges,
And fight for food with fifty thousand flies,
Too sick and sore to be afraid of "proj's,"
Too dazed with dust to see the turquoise skies;
Nor walk at even by the busy beaches,