IN midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish,
Of the look at first of the mortally wounded–of that indescribable
look;
Of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide,
I dream, I dream, I dream.
Of scenes of nature, fields and mountains;
Of skies, so beauteous after a storm–and at night the moon so
unearthly bright,
Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and gather
the heaps,
I dream, I dream, I dream.
Long, long have they pass’d–faces and trenches and fields;
Where through the carnage I moved with a callous composure–or away
from the fallen,
Onward I sped at the time–But now of their forms at night,
I dream, I dream, I dream. 10
