| THE road is thronged with women; soldiers pass | |
| And halt, but never see them; yet they’re here— | |
| A patient crowd along the sodden grass, | |
| Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear. | |
| The road goes crawling up a long hillside, | 5 |
| All ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs | |
| Of battle thrown in heaps. Here where they died | |
| Are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs, | |
| And dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight, | |
| Stare up at caverned darkness winking white. | 10 |
| |
| You in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling Jock, | |
| You tottered here and fell, and stumbled on, | |
| Half dazed for want of sleep. No dream would mock | |
| Your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone. | |
| You did not feel her arms about your knees, | 15 |
| Her blind caress, her lips upon your head. | |
| Too tired for thoughts of home and love and ease, | |
| The road would serve you well enough for bed. | |