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And e\er the type-keys chatter ; and ever our keen
wires bring Word from the watchers a-crouch below, word from
the watchers a-wing : And ever we hear the distant growl of our hid guns
thundering.
Hear it hardly, and turn again to our maps, where the trench-lines crawl,
Red on the gray and each with a sign for the rang- ing shrapnel's fall —
Snakes that our masters shall scotch at dawn, as is written here on the wall.
For the weeks of our waiting draw to a close. . . . There is scarcely a leaf astir
In the garden beyond my windows, where the twilight shadows blurr
The blaze of some woman's roses. . . . "Bom- bardment orders, sir."
— Gilbert Frankau.
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