//blatently stolen but nonetheless a little atmosphere from an Ilsarian on the retreat from Sundance.
Bent double, refugees of Sundance,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through forest,
Till on the following Drachs we turned our lance
And towards our distant Hilm hoped to rest.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the woots
Of mired, outstripped Green Cult that chased behind.
Drach! Drach! Quick, boys! -- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Casting the warding spells just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling,
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime .
Dim, through the misty trees and thick green acid,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before me helpless Sid,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, screaming.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, free of evil, sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the pain
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene and corrupt, like the green Cult stain
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high sin
To recruits ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; follow me and we will win
We will win, on to the end of this story