To him it was noise and smoke and the powder-taste And, once and again, through the smoke, for a moment seen, Small, monstrous pictures, gone through the brain like light, And yet forever bitten into the brain; A marsh, a monstrous arras of live and dead Still shaking under the thrust of the weaver’s hand, The crowd of a deadly fair. Then, orders again. And they were going away from the smoke once more.