Now they have won some sepulchred Gavrelle,
Some shattered homes in their own dust concealed;
Now no Bosch troubles them nor any shell,
But almost quiet holds the thankful field,
While men draw breath, and down the Arras road
Come the slow mules with battle's dreary stores,
And there is time to see the wounded stowed,
And stretcher-squads besiege the doctors' doors.
Then belches Hell anew. And all day long
The afflicted place drifts heavenward in dust;