The French guns roll continuously And our guns, heavy, slow; Along the Ancre, sinuously, The transport wagons go, And the dust is on the thistles And the larks sing up on high... But I see the Golden Valley Down by Tinern on the Wye. For it's just nine weeks last Sunday Since we took the Chepstow train, And I'm wondering if one day We shall do the like again; For the four-point-two's come screaming Tro' the sausages on high; So there's little use in dreaming How we walked above the Wye. Dust and corpses in the thistles Where the gas-shells burst like snow, And the shrapnel screams and whistles On the Becourt road below, And the High Wood bursts and bristles Where the mine-clouds foul the sky... But I'm with you up at Wyndcroft, Over Tintern on the Wye. Albert, 22/7/16
This poem is featured in our collection of World War I Literature.
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