Or hearing nothing, being too tired to hear. All night till the round sun comes and the morning breaks, Three double miles of live men. Listen to them, their breath goes up through the night In a great chord of life, in the sighing murmur Of wind-stirred wheat. A hundred and sixty thousand Breathing men, at night, on two hostile ridges set down.

Jack Ellyat slept that night on the rocky ground Of Cemetery Hill while the cold stars marched, And if his bed was harder than Jacob’s stone Yet he could sleep on it now and be glad for sleep.