The grim dawn lightens thin bleak clouds; In the hill clefts beyond the flooded meadows Lies death-pale, death-still mist. We trudge along wearily, Heavy with lack of sleep, Spiritless, yet with pretence of gaiety. The sun brings crimson to the colourless sky; Light gleams from brass and steel— We trudge on wearily— O God, end this bleak anguish Soon, soon, with vivid crimson death, End it in mist-pale sleep!
This poem is in the public domain.