English poem
The Wounded
by Maurice Baring (1874–1945)
The wounded lie and groan upon the plain; And one there is whom it is vain to lift; So give him water. It is the last gift, And very soon he shall not thirst again. All white and gold the Chief with a troop of horse Trots by. The soldier opens smiling eyes; And at the latest gasp of life he cries: “Long live!” with all his feeble flickering force. Before he said his say he died content. And we, the wounded on life’s battlefield, Enrolled and sent to war to fight and die, When conquered by our mortal wound, we cry “Long live!” obedient to our sacrament, When God with all His universe rides by.
Manchuria, 1904.