Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land,   
  Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.   
In the great hour of destiny they stand,   
  Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.   
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win  
  Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.   
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin   
  They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives.   
   
I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,   
  And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,  
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,   
  And mocked by hopeless longing to regain   
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,   
  And going to the office in the train.