Ellyat lay upon Cemetery Hill. His wounds had begun to burn. He was rising up Through cold and vacant darknesses into faint light, The yellow, watery light of a misty moon. He stirred a little and groaned. There was something cool On his face and hands. It was dew. He lay on his back And stared at a blowing cloud and a moist, dark sky. “Old charioteer,” he thought. He remembered dully The charge. The charge had come. They had beaten the charge. Now it was moist dark sky and the dew and his pain.