在疲惫、悲伤、等待的时光里，我修补我的小诗;在战斗的喧嚣中，他们还没有把伤员带进来;通过宿命之夜的守夜，在破烂的谷仓里，借着烛光;在坑坑洼洼的防空洞里，在僵硬的担架上，血迹斑斑;走过破烂的小树林，走过残破的道路，走过爱居住的火炉;通过破碎的祭坛，烧焦的神龛，我修补了我的小诗。我用零星的歌声安慰自己，走过荒凉的道路:穿过长满弹片的病态的田野，只有死神收割过的草地;燃烧的十字架和破碎的尖塔，泥沼里无头的处女;鲜花盛开的花园，被掏空的坟墓，被打碎的坟墓;在垂死和死去的人旁边，火箭绿和火箭红，在颤动的池光中，火焰的花朵点缀着夜晚。 Ah me! by what dark ways of wrong I've cheered my heart with scraps of song. So here's my sheaf of war-won verse, And some is bad, and some is worse. And if at times I curse a bit, You needn't read that part of it; For through it all like horror runs The red resentment of the guns. And you yourself would mutter when You took the things that once were men, And sped them through that zone of hate To where the dripping surgeons wait; And wonder too if in God's sight War ever, ever can be right. Yet may it not be, crime and war But effort misdirected are? And if there's good in war and crime, There may be in my bits of rhyme, My songs from out the slaughter mill: So take or leave them as you will.