  Scarce had I written: it were best To crush this love, to give you up, Drink at one draught the bitter cup, And kill this new life in my breast, Than Parker's breathing seemed to give Ominous sound the end was near. I did so want this man to live— This negro soldier, dear. 'Twas three in the morning, all was still But Parker's rattle in the throat, Outside I heard the whippoorwill. The new moon like an Indian boat Hung just above the darkened grove, Where you and I had pledged our love, When you were here. Such precious hours, Such fleeting moments then were ours ... Alone here in the silent ward, With Parker dying, I was scared. His breath came short, his lips were blue. I asked him: "Is there something more, Parker, that I can do for you?" "Please hold my hand," he said. Before I took it, it was growing cold— Death, how quick it comes! Then next I seemed to hear the drums— For I had fainted for his eyes That stared with such a wide surprise, As the lids fell apart they stared, As if they saw what to behold Had startled his poor soul which fared Where it would not. I heard the drums, The bugle next, lay there so faint With Parker's eyes still in my view, Like bubble motes which flit and paint Themselves upon the heaven's blue. An orderly had mailed meanwhile That letter, to you, there I lay Too weak to write again, unsay What I had written. Down the aisle, Between our beds a step I heard, A voice: "Our order's here, we leave In half an hour for France." I stirred Like a dead thing, could scarce conceive What tragedy was come. No chance To write you or to telegraph. In twelve hours more, as in a trance I looked from Ellis Island, where My chums could gayly talk and laugh. In two hours more we sailed for France. All this was hard, but still to bear The knowledge of you, your despair, Or change, or bitterness, if you thought That letter came from me, was wrought Out of a heart that could not stake Its own blood for your sake. I will come back to you at length If I but live and have the strength. How will you like me with hair white, And wasted cheeks, deep lined and pale? It all began that dreadful night Of Parker's death, the strain and fright, The letter it seemed best to write— From then to now I have been frail. Our ship just missed a submarine, And here the hardships, gas-gangrene, The horrors and the deaths have stripped My life of everything. Is it to prove For duty, you, though bloody-lipped, And fallen my unconquerable love For country and for you through all, Whatever fate befall? What is my soul's great anguish for? For what this tragedy of war? For what the fate that says to us: Part hands and be magnanimous? For what the judgment which decrees The mother love in me to cease? For separation, hopeless miles Of land and water us between? For what the devil force that smiles At man's immedicable pain? I have not lost my faith in God. Life has grown dark, I only say: Dear God, my feet have lost the way. Religion, wisdom do not give A place to stand, a space to live. I have not lost my faith in love, That somehow it must rise above The clouds of earth, I still can rest In dreams sometimes upon your breast. But, oh, it seems sometimes a play Where gods are picking a bouquet: The blossom of war, my soul or yours More fragrant grown as it endures.... |
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