Near Vermand

Lying flat on my belly shivering in clutch frost,
There was time to watch the stars, we had dug in;
Looking eastward over the low ridge; March scurried its blast,
At our senses, no use either dying or struggling.
Low woods to left, Cotswold spinnies if ever,
Showed through snow flurries and the clearer star weather.
And nothing but chill and wonder lived in mind; nothing
But loathing and fine beauty, and wet clothing.
Here were thoughts. Cold smothering, and fire-desiring,
A day to follow like this or in digging or wiring.