He's lost his colour very far from here, Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry - Wilfred Owen

He dropped, — more sullenly than wearily,
Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,
And none of us could kick him to his feet;
— Just blinked at my revolver, blearily;
— Didn't appear to know a war was on,
Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.

Consummation is consumption

We cannot consummate our bliss and not consume
All joys are cakes and vanish in eating
All bliss is sugar's melting in the mouth

But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one.