Morning, if this late withered light can claim br Some kindred with that merry flame br Which the young day was wont to fling through space! br Agony stares from each grey face. br And yet the day is come; stand down! stand down! br Your hands unclasp from rifles while you can; br The frost has pierced them to the bended bone? br Why see old Stevens there, that iron man, br Melting the ice to shave his grotesque chin! br Go ask him,, shall we win? br I never likes this bay, some foolish fear br Caught me the first time that I came here; br That dugout fallen in awakes, perhaps br Some formless haunting of some corpse's chaps. br True, and wherever we have held the line, br There were such corners, seeming-saturnine br For no good cause. br br Now where the Haymarket starts, br There is no place for soldiers with weak hearts; br The minenwerfers have it to the inch. br Look, how the snow-dust whisks along the road br Piteous and silly; the stones themselves must flinch br In this east wind; the low sky like a load br Hangs over, a dead-weight. But what a pain br Must gnaw where its clay cheek br Crushes the shell-chopped trees that fang the plain – br The ice-bound throat gulps out a gargoyle shriek. br That wretched wire before the village line br Rattles like rusty brambles on dead bine, br And there the daylight oozes into dun; br Black pillars, those are trees where roadways run br Even Ypres now would warm our souls; fond fool, br Our tour's but one night old, seven more to cool! br O screaming dumbness, o dull clashing death, br Shreds of dead grass and willows, homes and men, br Watch as you will, men clench their chattering teeth br And freeze you back with that one hope, disdain.