I onward go, I stop,
With hinged knees and steady hand to dress wounds,
I am firm with each, the pangs are sharp yet unavoidable,
One turns to me his appealing eyes—poor boy! I never knew you,
Yet I think I could not refuse this moment to die for you, if that would save you.
For me, it's a work that's very reminiscent of Britten's Owen Wingrave, not sure whether that's a consequence of both work's meditation on the consequences of war?