By Robert Graves
1895.7.24-1985.12.7The bugler sent a call of high romance--
"Lights out! Lights out!" to the deserted square.
On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer,
"God, if it's this for me next time in France ...
O spare the phantom bugle as I lie
Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns,
Dead in a row with the other broken ones
Lying so stiff and still under the sky,
Jolly young Fusiliers too good to die."
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I didn't read his poetry until I found that web site of WWI poetry. I was familiar with The White Goddess, that is all.
ReplyDeleteI hate this war.