The Road

The road is thronged with women; soldiers pass
And halt, but never see them; yet they're here--
A patient crowd among the sodden grass,
Silent, worn out with waiting, sick with fear.
The road goes crawling up a long hillside,
All ruts and stone and sludge, and the emptied dregs
Of battle thrown in heaps. Here where thsy 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,
Tou tottered here and fell, and stumble on,
Half dazed for want of sleep. No dream would 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 a bed.

--Siegfried Sassoon

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