Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land, | |
Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows. | |
In the great hour of destiny they stand, | |
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. | |
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win | 5 |
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. | |
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin | |
They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives. | |
I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, | |
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, | 10 |
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, | |
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain | |
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, | |
And going to the office in the train. |
Siegfried Sassoon
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