The road is thronged with women; soldiers pass	 
And halt, but never see them; yet they’re here—	 
A patient crowd along the sodden grass,	 
Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear.	 
The road goes crawling up a long hillside,	        
All ruts and stones and sludge, and the emptied dregs	 
Of battle thrown in heaps. Here where they died	 
Are stretched big-bellied horses with stiff legs,	 
And dead men, bloody-fingered from the fight,	 
Stare up at caverned darkness winking white.	  
  
You in the bomb-scorched kilt, poor sprawling Jock,	 
You tottered here and fell, and stumbled on,	 
Half dazed for want of sleep. No dream could mock	 
Your reeling brain with comforts lost and gone.	 
You did not feel her arms about your knees,	  
Her blind caress, her lips upon your head.	 
Too tired for thoughts of home and love and ease,	 
The road would serve you well enough for bed.