在阴冷的夜末，空气中似乎有一股秋天的气息;他躺在一间潮湿发霉的防空洞里，瑟瑟发抖，双腿裹在沙袋里。一块块的粉笔和粘土溅在他的脸上。他口干舌燥地想，‘今天我们就要发动那该死的进攻了;天知道为什么是零?九点钟;我该怎么办?i’在早晨自由的天空下，我受够了!然后他咳嗽了几声，打了个盹，咒骂着吵闹声。是地下气息里的秋鬼，还是上帝?他那颗空虚的心变得善良了，这让他在地狱里做了一个快乐的梦。在那里，人们像土块一样被压碎，匍匐着寻找一个坑来发泄他们的不幸; who lie In outcast immolation, doomed to die Far from clean things or any hope of cheer, Cowed anger in their eyes, till darkness brims And roars into their heads, and they can hear Old childish talk, and tags of foolish hymns. He sniffs the chilly air; (his dreaming starts), He?s riding in a dusty Sussex lane In quiet September; slowly night departs; And he?s a living soul, absolved from pain. Beyond the brambled fences where he goes Are glimmering fields with harvest piled in sheaves, And tree-tops dark against the stars grown pale; Then, clear and shrill, a distant farm-cock crows; And there?s a wall of mist along the vale Where willows shake their watery-sounding leaves, He gazes on it all, and scarce believes That earth is telling its old peaceful tale; He thanks the blessed world that he was born... Then, far away, a lonely note of the horn. They?re drawing the Big Wood! Unlatch the gate, And set Golumpus going on the grass; He knows the corner where it?s best to wait And hear the crashing woodland chorus pass; The corner where old foxes make their track To the Long Spinney; that?s the place to be. The bracken shakes below an ivied tree, And then a cub looks out; and `Tally-o-back!? He bawls, and swings his thong with volleying crack,? All the clean thrill of autumn in his blood, And hunting surging through him like a flood In joyous welcome from the untroubled past; While the war drifts away, forgotten at last. Now a red, sleepy sun above the rim Of twilight stares along the quiet weald, And the kind, simple country shines revealed In solitudes of peace, no longer dim. The old horse lifts his face and thanks the light, Then stretches down his head to crop the green. All things that he has loved are in his sight; The places where his happiness has been Are in his eyes, his heart, and they are good. . . . . Hark! there?s the horn: they?re drawing the Big Wood.