His fingers wake, and flutter up the bed. His eyes come open with a pull of will, Helped by the yellow may-flowers by his head. A blind-cord drawls across the window-sill . . ....
Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight? Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows, Drooping tongues from jaws that slob their relish, Baring teeth that leer like skulls' tongues wicked?...
I mind as 'ow the night afore that show Us five got talking,--we was in the know, "Over the top to-morrer; boys, we're for it, First wave we are, first ruddy wave; that's tore it."...