Thrice, ten thousand men lying
Of cold, of thirst,
And hunger dying,
In dread pits of idol clay
Where flesh submits to foul decay,
Like madmen howling,
In dark blood crawling,
Foemen, strangers,
Thickly clustering,
In drifts of smoke,
Silently suffering,
I follow the dreams,
That seek the grave
As I walk
The moonless fens of a darkling day.