Spent in a state sans peace, sans sleep;
And as I soothe some stinging bite,
I mark the gentle smell of sheep,
The smell that wots of grassy dell,
Of hillsides green where fairies dance....
The vision’s past—I’m back in hell,
An ancient stable barn of France.
We’ve slept with all the gander’s flock,
By waddling duck we’ve slumbered on—
In fact, we’ve slept with all the stock,