In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again. By Siegfried Sassoon. That there's some corner of a foreign field that is forever Englan. In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lits. Then, clumsily bowed With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, They leave their trenches, going over the top, While tim ticks blank and busy on their wrists, And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, Flounders in mud. O jesus, make it stop.