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Soldier Poets
The Counter-attack
A WAXEN moon hung high in night's black tent,
A ghost-wind in the branches stirring,
And from the ridges tunnelled, scarred and rent,
A deep and sullen boom recurring.
Flash follows flash. A lurid fan-like glare
The ebon vault an instant blenches,
While green and crimson rocket-signals flare
In No-Man's-Land between the trenches.
Shells shriek, bombs crash and thunder, bullets whine,
Tornado hideous, evil-boding,
That rolls in vain against our serried line,
Alert for onslaught, calmly loading.
Now up and at them. Shouts exultant, harsh,
A mêlée of cold steel colliding,
Gaunt shadows grappling in a bloody marsh,
And low moans rising and subsiding.
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