LIMBO by ROBERT GRAVES

After a week spent under raining skies,
  In horror, mud and sleeplessness, a week
Of bursting shells, of blood and hideous cries
  And the ever-watchful sniper: where the reek
Of death offends the living...but poor dead
  Can't sleep, must lie awake with the horrid sound
That roars and whirs and rattles overhead
  All day, all night, and jars and tears the ground;
When rats run, big as kittens: to and fro
  They dart, and scuffle with their horrid fare,
And then one night relief comes, and we go
  Miles back into the sunny cornland where
Babies like tickling, and where tall white horses
Draw the plough leisurely in quiet courses.