Champs d'Honneur (Poem by Ernest Hemingway)

Old Poem

Champs d'Honneur
By Ernest 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.

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