57448: Asleep

<p dir="ltr"> Under his helmet, up against his pack,<br> After so many days of work and waking,<br> Sleep took him by the brow and laid him back.<br> There, in the happy no-time of his sleeping,<br> Death took him by the heart. There heaved a quaking<br> Of the aborted life within him leaping,<br> Then chest and sleepy arms once more fell slack.<br> And soon the slow, stray blood came creeping<br> From the intruding lead, like ants on track.<br> Whether his deeper sleep lie shaded by the shaking<br> Of great wings, and the thoughts that hung the stars,<br> High-pillowed on calm pillows of God's making,<br> Above these clouds, these rains, these sleets of lead,<br> And these winds' scimitars,<br> -- Or whether yet his thin and sodden head<br> Confuses more and more with the low mould,<br> His hair being one with the grey grass<br> Of finished fields, and wire-scrags rusty-old,<br> Who knows? Who hopes? Who troubles? Let it pass!<br> He sleeps. He sleeps less tremulous, less cold,<br> Than we who wake, and waking say Alas!</p>