The Troop Ship by Isaac Rosenberg

Grotesque and queerly huddled
Contortionists to twist
The sleepy soul to a sleep,
We lie all sorts of ways
And cannot sleep.
The wet wind is so cold,
And the lurching men so careless,
That, should you drop to a doze,
Winds' fumble or men's feet
Are on your face.

MARCHING
(AS SEEN FROM THE LEFT FILE).

My eyes catch ruddy necks
Sturdily pressed back--
All a red-brick moving glint.
Like flaming pendulums, hands
Swing across the khaki¬--
Mustard-coloured khaki--
To the automatic feet.

We husband the ancient glory
In these bared necks and hands.
Not broke is the forge of Mars ;
But a subtler brain beats iron
To shoe the hoofs of death
(Who paws dynamic air now).
Blind fingers loose an iron cloud
To rain immortal darkness
On strong eyes.