sods on the dugout begin to be fledged
with fine green feathers of yarrow
i once glimpsed fairies by squinting the leaves
but now i scry nothing but sorrow
for i have seen milfoils grow under a hedge
i've seen them stand up on a barrow
but what shall i think when they burst into bloom
the flowers stained mustard-gas yellow
the sun and the wind are drying the mud
but the mortar and shell they will harrow