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WILFRID J. HALLIDAY
Private, 13th Battalion, West Yorks. Regiment
The Grave
THEY dug his grave by lantern light,
A nameless German boy:
A remnant from that hurried flight,
Lost, wounded, left in hapless plight
For carrion to destroy.
They thought him dead at first until
They felt the heart's slow beat:
So calm he lay, serene and still,
It seemed a butchery to kill
An innocence so sweet.
A movement of his lips, maybe
To call his mother there:
A tear, a smile of victory—
Then easeful death proclaimed him free,
Free from a tyrant's care.
Somewhere a mother droops and sighs
For tidings long delayed:
Somewhere a sister mourns and cries
For him who in that cold grave lies,
Dug by the foeman's spade.
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