A SIGHT in camp in the daybreak gray and dim,As from my tent I emerge so early sleepless,As slow I walk in the cool fresh air the path near by the hospital tent,Three forms I see on stretchers lying, brought out there untended lying,Over each the blanket spread, ample brownish woolen blanket,Gray and heavy blanket, folding, covering all.Curious I halt and silent stand,Then with light fingers I from the face of the nearest the first just lift the blanket;Who are you elderly man so gaunt and grim, with well-gray'd hair, and flesh all sunken about the eyes?Who are you my dear comrade?Then to the second I step—and who are you my child and darling?Who are you sweet boy with cheeks yet blooming?Then to the third—a face nor child nor old, very calm, as of beautiful yellow-white ivory;Young man I think I know you—I think this face is the face of the Christ himself,Dead and divine and brother of all, and here again he lies.