by Vera Brittain
(V.R., Died of Wounds, 2nd London General Hospital Chelsea, June 9th, 1917) I am so tired. The dying sun incarnadines the West, And every window with its gold is fired, And all I loved the best Is gone, and every good that I desired Passes away, an idle hopeless quest; Even the Highest whereto I aspired Has vanished with the rest. I am so tired. London, June 1917.