| George Herbert Clarke, ed. (1873–1953). A Treasury of War Poetry. 1917. |
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| 69. In the Trenches |
| | | By Maurice Hewlett |
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| AS I lay in the trenches | |
| Under the Hunter’s Moon, | |
| My mind ran to the lenches | |
| Cut in a Wiltshire down. | |
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| I saw their long black shadows, | 5 |
| The beeches in the lane, | |
| The gray church in the meadows | |
| And my white cottage—plain. | |
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| Thinks I, the down lies dreaming | |
| Under that hot moon’s eye, | 10 |
| Which sees the shells fly screaming | |
| And men and horses die. | |
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| And what makes she, I wonder, | |
| Of the horror and the blood, | |
| And what’s her luck, to sunder | 15 |
| The evil from the good? | |
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| ’T was more than I could compass, | |
| For how was I to think | |
| With such infernal rumpus | |
| In such a blasted stink? | 20 |
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| But here’s a thought to tally | |
| With t’other. That moon sees | |
| A shrouded German valley | |
| With woods and ghostly trees. | |
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| And maybe there’s a river | 25 |
| As we have got at home | |
| With poplar-trees aquiver | |
| And clots of whirling foam. | |
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| And over there some fellow, | |
| A German and a foe, | 30 |
| Whose gills are turning yellow | |
| As sure as mine are so, | |
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| Watches that riding glory | |
| Apparel’d in her gold, | |
| And craves to hear the story | 35 |
| Her frozen lips enfold. | |
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| And if he sees as clearly | |
| As I do where her shrine | |
| Must fall, he longs as dearly, | |
| With heart as full as mine. | 40 |
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