The Casualty Clearing Station

A BOWL of daffodils,

A crimson-quilted bed,

Sheets and pillows white as snow—

White and gold and red—

And sisters moving to and fro,

With soft and silent tread.

So all my spirit fills

With pleasure infinite,

And all the feathered wings of rest

Seem flocking from the radiant West

To bear we thro’ the night.

See, how they close me in,

They, and the sisters’ arms.

One eye is closed, the other lid

Is watching how my spirit slid

Toward some red-roofed farms,

And having crept beneath them slept

Secure from war’s alarms.