Siegfried Sassoon (1886–1967). The Old Huntsman and Other Poems. 1918.

13. In the Pink

SO Davies wrote: ‘This leaves me in the pink’.

Then scrawled his name: ‘Your loving sweetheart, Willie’.

With crosses for a hug. He’d had a drink

Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly,

For once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend.

Winter was passing; soon the year would mend.

But he couldn’t sleep that night; stiff in the dark

He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm,

And how he’d go as cheerful as a lark

In his best suit, to wander arm in arm

With brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear

The simple, silly things she liked to hear.

And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge

Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten.

Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge,

And everything but wretchedness forgotten.

To-night he’s in the pink; but soon he’ll die.

And still the war goes on—he don’t know why.