War and Love/Battle-Field

by Richard Aldington

 

BATTLE-FIELD

The wind is piercing chillAnd blows fine grains of snowOver this shell-rent ground;Every house in sightIs smashed and desolate.

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