War and Love/Battle-Field

by Richard Aldington

 

BATTLE-FIELD

The wind is piercing chill
And blows fine grains of snow
Over this shell-rent ground;
Every house in sight
Is smashed and desolate.

But in this fruitless land,
Thorny with wire
And foul with rotting clothes and sacks
The crosses flourish—
Ci-gît, ci-gît, ci-gît …
"Ci-gît 1 soldat Allemand,
Priez pour lui."