The poem
He's got a Blighty wound. He's safe; and then War's fine and bold and bright. She can forget the doomed and prisoned men Who agonize and fight.
He's back in France. She loathes the listless strain And peril of his plight, Beseeching Heaven to send him home again, She prays for peace each night.
Husbands and sons and lovers; everywhere They die; War bleeds us white Mothers and wives and sweethearts,-they don't care So long as He's all right.