Died of Wounds by Siegfried 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 â€˜Dickieâ€™. â€˜Curse the Wood!
â€˜Itâ€™s time to go. O Christ, and whatâ€™s the good?
â€˜Weâ€™ll never take it, and itâ€™s always raining.â€™
I wondered where heâ€™d been; then heard him shout,
â€˜They snipe like hell! O Dickie, donâ€™t go out...
I fell asleep ... Next morning he was dead;
And some Slight Wound lay smiling on the bed.