He gripped the stretcher; stiffened; glared; and screamed,
‘O put my leg down, doctor, do!’ (He’d got
A bullet in his ankle; and he’d been shot
Horribly through the guts.) The surgeon seemed
So kind and gentle, saying, above that crying,
‘You
must
keep still, my lad.’ But he was dying.
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And stretching forth these arms I cannot beLord of winged sunrise and dim Arcady:When fieldward boys far off with clack and shoutFrom orchards scare the birds in sudden rout,Come, ere my heart grows cold and full of doubt,In the still summer dawns that waken me.When the first lark goes up to look for dayAnd morning…
When Watkin shifts the burden of his cares
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Four days the earth was rent and torn
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I’d been on duty from two till four.
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I’d heard fool-heroes brag of where they’d been,
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