INTERVAL; FRONT ROW STALLS

Over the footlights the ankles caper, The grease paint glistens, the fringed eyes glance; The last note shrills, and the curtain runs. The man beside me opens a paper: “Bitter weather—three mile advance— Heavy losses—we take the guns.” And between my eyes and the crimson lights Move the ranks of men who sat here o’ nights, And now lie heaped in the mud together, Stiff and still in the bitter weather.