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I slumbered
with your poems on my breast
Spread open as I dropped
them half-read through
Like dove wings on a figure on
a tomb
To see, if in a dream they brought of you,
I might not have the chance I missed in life
Through some delay, and call you to your face
First
solider, and then poet, and then both,
Who died a
soldier-poet of your race.
I meant, you meant,
that nothing should remain
Unsaid between us,
brother, and this remained--
And one thing more that
was not then to say:
The Victory for what it lost and
gained.
You went to meet the shell's embrace of
fire
On Vimy Ridge; and when you fell that day
The
war seemed over more for you than me,
But now for me
than you--the other way.
How ever, though, for
even me who knew
The foe thrust back unsafe beyond
the Rhine,
If I was not speak of it to you
And see
you pleased once more with words of mine?
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