We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew, And gave us hell, for shell on frantic² shell Hammered on top, but never quite burst through. Rain, guttering³ down in waterfalls of slime Kept slush waist high, that rising hour by hour, Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb. What murk of air remained stank⁴ old, and sour With fumes⁵ of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den⁶, If not their corpses⁷. . . . There we herded⁸ from the blast Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last. Buffeting⁹ eyes and breath, snuffing the candles. And thud！ flump！ thud！ down the steep steps came thumping¹⁰ And splashing in the flood, deluging¹¹ muck —— The sentry's body； then his rifle, handles Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck. We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined¹² "O sir, my eyes —— I'm blind —— I'm blind, I'm blind！" Coaxing¹³, I held a flame against his lids And said if he could see the least blurred¹⁴ light He was not blind； in time he'd get all right. "I can't," he sobbed¹⁵. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids Watch my dreams still； but I forgot him there In posting next for duty, and sending a scout¹⁷ To beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about To other posts under the shrieking¹⁸ air.

    Those other wretches¹⁹, how they bled and spewed, And one who would have drowned himself for good, —— I try not to remember these things now. Let dread²⁰ hark back for one word only： how Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps, And the wild chattering²¹ of his broken teeth, Renewed most horribly whenever crumps Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath —— Through the dense²² din¹⁶, I say, we heard him shout "I see your lights！" But ours had long died out.