Modern British Poetry Part 35


The bugler sent a call of high romance-- "Lights out! Lights out!" to the deserted square.

On the thin brazen notes he threw a prayer: "G.o.d, if it's _this_ for me next time in France, O spare the phantom bugle as I lie Dead in the gas and smoke and roar of guns, Dead in a row with other broken ones, Lying so stiff and still under the sky-- Jolly young Fusiliers, too good to die ..."

The music ceased, and the red sunset flare Was blood about his head as he stood there.

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