At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun
In wild purple of the glow’ring sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
Men jostle and climb to meets the bristling fire,
Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top.
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Love Makes The World Go Round
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