Lying in dug-outs, joking idly, wearily; <br />Watching the candle guttering in the draught; <br />Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerily <br />Singing; how often have I turned over, and laughed <br /> <br />With pity and pride, photographs of all colours, <br />All sizes, subjects: khaki brothers in France; <br />Or mother's faces worn with countless dolours; <br />Or girls whose eyes were challenging and must dance, <br /> <br />Though in a picture only, a common cheap <br />Ill-taken card; and children - frozen, some <br />(Babies) waiting on Dicky-bird to peep <br />Out of the handkerchief that is his home <br /> <br />(But he's so shy!). And some with bright looks, calling <br />Delight across the miles of land and sea, <br />That not the dread of barrage suddenly falling <br />Could quite blot out - not mud nor lethargy. <br /> <br />Smiles and triumphant careless laughter. O <br />The pain of them, wide Earth's most sacred things! <br />Lying in dugouts, hearing the great shells slow <br />Sailing mile-high, the heart mounts higher and sings. <br /> <br />But once - O why did he keep that bitter token <br />Of a dead Love? - that boy, who, suddenly moved, <br />Showed me, his eyes wet, his low talk broken, <br />A girl who better had not been beloved.<br /><br />Ivor Gurney<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/photographs-to-two-scots-lads/
