Champs d’Honneur

Champs d’Honneur

Poem by Ernest M. Hemingway

Soldiers never do die well;
         Crosses mark the places—
Wooden crosses where they fell,
         Stuck above their faces.
Soldiers pitch and cough and twitch—
         All the world roars red and black;
Soldiers smother in a ditch,
         Choking through the whole attack.