The Poetry Corner

Died Of Wounds

By Siegfried Loraine Sassoon

His wet, white face and miserable eyes Brought nurses to him more than groans and sighs: But hoarse and low and rapid rose and fell His troubled voice: he did the business well. The ward grew dark; but he was still complaining, And calling out for "Dickie." "Curse the Wood! It's time to go; O Christ, and what's the good? - We'll never take it; and it's always raining." I wondered where he'd been; then heard him shout, "They snipe like hell! O Dickie, don't go out" ... I fell asleep ... next morning he was dead; And some Slight Wound lay smiling on his bed.