| Robert Graves (1895–1985). Fairies and Fusiliers. 1918. |
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| 45. 1915 |
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| I’VE watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow, | |
| In the fields between La Bassée and Bethune; | |
| Primroses and the first warm day of Spring, | |
| Red poppy floods of June, | |
| August, and yellowing Autumn, so | 5 |
| To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow, | |
| And you’ve been everything. | |
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| Dear, you’ve been everything that I most lack | |
| In these soul-deadening trenches—pictures, books, | |
| Music, the quiet of an English wood, | 10 |
| Beautiful comrade-looks, | |
| The narrow, bouldered mountain-track, | |
| The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black, | |
| And Peace, and all that’s good. | |
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