The poem
That boy I took in the car last night, With the body that awfully sagged away, And the lips blood-crisped, and the eyes flame-bright, And the poor hands folded and cold as clay -- Oh, I've thought and I've thought of him all the day.
For the weary old doctor says to me: "He'll only last for an hour or so. Both of his legs below the knee Blown off by a bomb. . . . So, lad, go slow,
And please remember, he doesn't know." So I tried to drive with never a jar; And there was I cursing the road like mad, When I hears a ghost of a voice from the car: "Tell me, old chap, have I `copped it' bad?" So I answers "No," and he says, "I'm glad."
"Glad," says he, "for at twenty-two Life's so splendid, I hate to go. There's so much good that a chap might do, And I've fought from the start and I've suffered so. 'Twould be hard to get knocked out now, you know."
"Forget it," says I; then I drove awhile, And I passed him a cheery word or two; But he didn't answer for many a mile, So just as the hospital hove in view, Says I: "Is there nothing that I can do?"
Then he opens his eyes and he smiles at me; And he takes my hand in his trembling hold; "Thank you -- you're far too kind," says he: "I'm awfully comfy -- stay . . . let's see: I fancy my blanket's come unrolled -- My feet, please wrap 'em -- they're cold . . . they're cold."