The poem
Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake, Out in the trench with three hours' watch to take, I blunder through the splashing mirk; and then Hear the gruff muttering voices of the men Crouching in cabins candle-chinked with light. Hark! There's the big bombardment on our right Rumbling and bumping; and the dark's a glare Of flickering horror in the sectors where We raid the Boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled, Or crawling on their bellies through the wire. 'What? Stretcher-bearers wanted? Some one killed?' Five minutes ago I heard a sniper fire: Why did he do it? ... Starlight overhead- Blank stars. I'm wide-awake; and some chap's dead.