(After Gueudecourt)
Break we the bread once more,
The cup we pass around-
No, rather let us pour
This wine upon the ground;
And on the salver lay
The bread-there to remain.
Perhaps, some other day,
Shrovetide will come again.
Blurred is the rubric now,
And shadowy the token,
When blood is on the brow,
And the frail body broken.