Katharine Howard: Belgium

This is the field that was crushed in their dying,
And over and over the wind blows sighing—
A desolate, sobbing, searching wind.
’Tis a low gray land of barren spaces
And long rough ridges of burial places,
The grass bruised into the choking sod.

The clouds are lank with a dull slow weeping,
And the mist enshrouds the place of their sleeping.