posted on 2024-04-25, 17:29authored byFirst World War Poetry Digital Archive Project Team
'No one cares less than I, Nobody knows but God, Whether I am destined to lie Under a foreign clod,' Were the words I made to the bugle call in the morning. But laughing, storming, scorning, Only the bugles know What the bugles say in the morning, And they do not care, when they blow The call that I heard and made words to early this morning.
History
Identifier
2932.txt
Creator
Thomas, Edward (1878-1917)
Date
1979
Date Created
01/01/1979
Temporal Date
31/12/1979
Type
Poem
Rights
Copyright Edward Thomas, 1979, reproduced under licence from Faber and Faber Ltd.