Zonnebeke, by William Orpen
Ernest Hemingway

Champs D’Honneur

Soldiers never do die well;
        Crosses mark the places—
Wooden crosses where they fell,
        Stuck above their faces.
Soldiers pitch and cough and twitch—
        All the world roars red and black;
Soldiers smother in a ditch,
        Choking through the whole attack.
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