(Abbreviated from the conversation with Mr. T E H. <br /> <br /> <br />Over the flat slope of St Eloi <br />A wide wall of sandbags. <br />Night, <br />In the silence desultory men <br />Pottering over small fires, cleaning their mess-tins: <br />To and fro, from the lines, <br />Men walk as on Piccadilly, <br />Making paths in the dark, <br />Through scattered dead horses, <br />Over a dead Belgian’s body. <br /> <br />The Germans have rockets. The English have no rockets, <br />Behind the lines, cannon, hidden, lying back miles. <br />Before the line, chaos. <br /> <br />My mind is a corridor. The minds about me are <br />corridors. <br />Nothing suggests itself. There is nothing to do but keep on.<br /><br />Ezra Pound<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/poem-104/
