LAST summer, centuries ago,

I watched the postman's lantern glow,

As night by night on leaden feet

He twinkled down our darkened street.

So welcome on his beaten track,

The bent man with the bulging sack!

But dread of every sleepless couch,

A whistling imp with leathern pouch!

And now I meet him in the way,

And earth is Heaven, night is Day,

For oh! there shines before his lamp

An envelope without a stamp!

Address in pencil; overhead,

The Censor's triangle in red.

Indoors and up the stair I bound:

One from the boy, still safe, still sound!

"Still merry in a dubious trench

They've taken over from the French;

Still making light of duty done;

Still full of Tommy, Fritz, and fun!

Still finding War of games the cream,

And his platoon a priceless team—

Still running it by sportsman's rule,

Just as he ran his house at school.

"Still wild about the 'bombing stunt'

He makes his hobby at the front.

Still trustful of his wondrous luck—

Prepared to take on old man Kluck!'"

Awed only in the peaceful spells,

And only scornful of their shells,

His beaming eye yet found delight

In ruins lit by flares at night,

In clover field and hedgerow green,

Apart from cover or a screen,

In Nature spurting spick-and-span

For all the devilries of Man.

He said those weeks of blood and tears

Were worth his score of radiant years.

He said he had not lived before—

Our boy who never dreamt of War!

He gave us of his own dear glow,

Last summer, centuries ago.

Bronzed leaves still cling to every bough.

I don't waylay the postman now.

Doubtless upon his nightly beat

He still comes twinkling down our street.

I am not there with straining eye—

A whistling imp could tell you why.