Bailey called him “Colonel” and didn’t mean it, Bailey had had him tossed in a blanket once, Bailey had told the tale of the tattooed whore, Somehow he hated Bailey worse than the rest. He managed to leave the tent without waking Bailey. It was very early still. The sun was just up. A fair sky, a very fair day. The air still held That bloom which is not the bloom on apple or peach But the bloom on a fruit made up of pure water and light, The freshness of dawn, still trembling, being new-born. He sucked at it gratefully. The camp was asleep. All that length of tents still asleep. He could see through the tents. He could see all those sleeping, rough, lousy, detested men Laden with sleep as with soft leaden burdens laden, Movelessly lying between the brown fawns of sleep Like infants nuzzled against the flanks of a doe, In quietness slumbering, in a warm quietness, While sleep looked at them with her fawn’s agate eyes And would not wake them yet. And he was alone,