O, but the racked clear tired strained frames we had! <br />Tumbling in the new billet on to straw bed, <br />Dead asleep in eye shutting. Waking as sudden <br />To a golden and azure roof, a golden ratcheted <br />Lovely web of blue seen and blue shut, and cobwebs and tiles, <br />And grey wood dusty with time. June’s girlish kindest smiles. <br />Rest at last and no danger for another week, a seven-day week. <br />But one Private took on himself a Company’s heart to speak, <br />“I wish to bloody hell I was just going to Brewer – surely <br />to work all day (in Stroud) and be free at tea-time – allowed <br />Resting when one wanted, and a joke in season, <br />To change clothes and take a girl to Horsepool’s turning, <br />Or drink a pint at ‘Travellers Rest’, and find no cloud. <br />Then God and man and war and Gloucestershire would have <br />a reason, <br />But I get no good in France, getting killed, cleaning off mud. <br />He spoke the heart of all of us – the hidden thought burning, <br />unturning.<br /><br />Ivor Gurney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/billet/
