Down in the hollow there?s the whole Brigade Camped in four groups: through twilight falling slow I hear a sound of mouth-organs, ill-played, And murmur of voices, gruff, confused, and low. Crouched among thistle-tufts I?ve watched the glow Of a blurred orange sunset flare and fade; And I?m content. To-morrow we must go To take some cursèd Wood ... O world God made! July 3rd, 1916.