I came from the City of Fear,

From the scarred brown land of pain,

Back into life again ...

And I thought, as the leave-boat rolled

Under the veering stars—

Wind a-shriek in her spars—

Shivering there, and cold,

Of music, of warmth, and of wine—

To be mine

For a whole short week ...

And I thought, adrowse in the train,

Of London, suddenly near;

And of how—small doubt—I should find

There, as of old,

Some woman—foolishly kind:

Fingers to hold,

A cheek,

A mouth to kiss—and forget,

Forget in a little while,

Forget

When I came again

To the scarred brown land of pain,

To the sodden things and the vile,

And the tedious battle-fret.

My dear,

I cannot forget!

I remember the poise of your head,

And your look, and the words you said

When we met,

And the waxen bloom at your breast,

And the sable fur that caressed

Your smooth white wrists, and your hands ...

Remember them yet,

Here

In the desolate lands;

Remember your shy

Strange air,

And growing aware—

I,

Who had reckoned love

Man’s toy for an hour—

Of love’s hidden power:

A thrill

That moved me to touch and adore

Some intimate thing that you wore—

A glove,

Or the flower

A-glow at your breast,

The frill

Of fur that circled your wrist ...

These, had my hands caressed;

Dear,

That hidden power thrills in me yet.

There is never one hour—

Not even here

In this City of Fear—

When I quite forget.