All day it has rained, and we on the edge of the moors br Have sprawled in our bell-tents, moody and dull as boors, br Groundsheets and blankets spread on the muddy ground br And from the first grey wakening we have found br No refuge from the skirmishing fine rain br And the wind that made the canvas heave and flap br And the taut wet guy-ropes ravel out and snap. br All day the rain has glided, wave and mist and dream, br Drenching the gorse and heather, a gossamer stream br Too light to stir the acorns that suddenly br Snatched from their cups by the wild south-westerly br Pattered against the tent and our upturned dreaming faces. br And we stretched out, unbuttoning our braces, br Smoking a Woodbine, darning dirty socks, br Reading the Sunday papers - I saw a fox br And mentioned it in the note I scribbled home; - br And we talked of girls and dropping bombs on Rome, br br And thought of the quiet dead and the loud celebrities br Exhorting us to slaughter, and the herded refugees; br br As of ourselves or those whom we br For years have loved, and will again br Tomorrow maybe love; but now it is the rain br Possesses us entirely, the twilight and the rain. br br And I can remember nothing dearer or more to my heart br Than the children I watched in the woods on Saturday br Shaking down burning chestnuts for the schoolyard's merry play, br Or the shaggy patient dog who followed me br By Sheet and Steep and up the wooded scree br To the Shoulder o' Mutton where Edward Thomas brooded long br On death and beauty - till a bullet stopped his song.