In clouds descending, in midnight sleep, of many a face of anguish,
Of the look at first of the mortally wounded—of that indescribable look;
Of the dead on their backs, with arms extended wide,
   I dream, I dream, I dream.

Of scenes of nature, the fields and the mountains;
Of the skies, so beauteous after the storm — and at night the moon so unearthly bright,
Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and gather the heaps,
   I dream, I dream, I dream.

Long have they pass'd, long lapsed—faces and trenches and fields;
Long through the carnage I moved with a callous composure — or away from the fallen,
Onward I sped at the time—But now of their forms at night,
   I dream, I dream, I dream.