those experiences, the passion of that hatred, into verse that is as nakedly simple in form as it is in phrase and in sincerity. It is the very heart of sorrow and angry compassion that speak in the broken lines of his 'Casualty List,' and, again, in the haunting picture, etched sharply in his 'Last Nocturne,' of how he was hurrying at night, with search-lights stabbing the sky and star-flares hovering overhead, until, passing under the darkness of trees, he stumbled and looked down on a figure at his feet—
His face was cold,
And very white;
There was no blood.
I grew old
That night
In the wood.
He was young,
My enemy—
But lips the same
As lips have sung
Often with me.
I whispered the name
Of the friend whose face
Was so like his;
But never a sound
In the dim place
Under the trees
Closing round.
