My friends are dying young; while I remain, 
Doomed to outlive these tragedies of pain
And half-forget how once I said farewell
To those who fought and suffered till they fell
To you, the dearest of them, and the last
Of all whose gladness linked me with the past.
And in this hour I wonder, seeing you go,
What further jest war keeps, having laid you low.

Men grey with years get wisdom from the strange
Procession of new faces, and the change
That keeps them eager. I am young, and yet
I've scores of banished eyes I can't forget;
The dead were my companions and my peers,
And I have lost them in a storm of tears.

I cannot call you back; I cannot say
One word to speed you on your hidden way.
Only I hoard the hours we spent together
Ranging brown Sussex woods in wintry weather,
Till, blotting out to-day, I half believe
That I shall find you home again on leave,
As I saw you, riding down the lane,
And lost in lowering dusk and drizzling rain,
Contented with the hunt we'd had, and then
Sad lest we'd never ride a hunt again.

You didn't mean to die; it wasn't fair
That you should go when we'd so much to share.
Good nags were all your need, and not a grave,
Or people testifying that you were brave.
The world's too full of heroes, mostly dead,
Mocked by rich wreaths and tributes nobly said,
Nor, while the parson preaches from his perch,
To read your name gold-lettered in the church.
And it's no gain to you, nor mends our loss,
To know you've earned a glorious wooden cross;

Come back, come back; you didn't want to die;
And all this war's a sham, a stinking lie;
And the glory that our fathers laud so well
A crowd of corpses freed from pangs of hell.