I

    Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us . . . Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent . . . Low drooping¹ flares² confuse our memory of the salient . . . Worried by silence, sentries³ whisper, curious, nervous, But nothing happens.

    Watching, we hear the mad gusts⁴ tugging⁵ on the wire. Like twitching⁶ agonies of men among its brambles. Northward⁷ incessantly⁸, the flickering⁹ gunnery rumbles¹⁰, Far off, like a dull rumour¹¹ of some other war. What are we doing here？

    The poignant¹² misery¹³ of dawn begins to grow . . . We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag¹⁴ stormy. Dawn massing in the east her melancholy¹⁵ army Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray, But nothing happens.

    Sudden successive flights of bullets streak¹⁶ the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew, We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance, But nothing happens