A SIGHT in camp in the day-break grey and dim,
As from my tent I emerge so early, sleepless,
As slow I walk in the cool fresh air, the path near by the hospital tent,
Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there, untended lying,
Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woollen blanket,
Grey and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.
Curious, I halt, and silent stand;
Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest, the first, just lift the blanket:
Who are you, elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-grey’d hair, and flesh all
Who are you, my dear comrade?
Then to the second I step-And who are you, my child and darling?
Who are you, sweet boy, with cheeks yet blooming?
Then to the third-a face nor child, nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white
Young man, I think I know you-I think this face of yours is the face of the Christ
Dead and divine, and brother of all, and here again he lies.