No, not for you the glamour of emprise,
Poor driven lad with terror in your eyes.
No dream of wounds and medals and renown
Called you like Love from your drab Northern town.
No haunting fife, dizzily shrill and sweet,
Came lilting drunkenly down your dingy street.
You will not change, with a swift catch of pride,
In the cold hut among the leers and oaths,
Out of your suit of frayed civilian clothes,
Into the blaze of khaki they provide.
Like a trapped animal you crouch and choke
In the packed carriage where the veterans smoke
And tell such pitiless tales of Over There,
They stop your heart dead short and freeze your hair.
Your body's like a flower on a snapt stalk,
Your head hangs from your neck as blank as chalk.
What horrors haunt you, head upon your breast!
... O but you'll die as bravely as the rest!