He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark, And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey, Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn, Voices of play and pleasures after day, Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him… He thought he’d better join. He wonders […]

What passing bells for these that die as cattle? Only the monstrous anger of the guns.