Down in the hollow there’s the whole Brigade <br />Camped in four groups: through twilight falling slow <br />I hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played, <br />And murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low. <br />Crouched among thistle-tufts I’ve watched the glow <br />Of a blurred orange sunset flare and fade; <br />And I’m content. To-morrow we must go <br />To take some cursèd Wood ... O world God made! <br /> <br /> <br />July 3rd, 1916.<br /><br />Siegfried Sassoon<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/at-carnoy/
