Down In The Hollow There'S The Whole Brigade Camped In Four Groups: Through Twilight Falling Slow I Hear A Sound Of Mouth-Organs, Ill-Played, And Murmur Of Voices, Gruff, Confused, And Low. Crouched Among Thistle-Tufts I've Watched The Glow Of A Blurred Orange Sunset Flare And Fade; And I'm Content. To-Morrow We Must Go To Take Some Curs'D Wood.... O World God Made! July 3Rd, 1916.