(Written from the Trenches)
Tomorrow before the Day-Dawn we’ll be out on the foe-man’s track,
Facing those grim, gray field-guns, and I fancy – we won’t come back;
Tomorrow: So near its coming – I cannot stave it away,
And all the tomorrows will soon be a passionless yesterday.
It isn’t the thought of the Maxims, or the red-rimmed steel I fear,
But the knowledge that you have forgotten the passion of yesteryear.
Idle of me to blame you; yet, had you one regret,
It were easy to face tomorrow, easier to forget.
You, with your passionate kisses; you with your red, ripe lips;
You, with your soft brown eyes that the stars could never eclipse.
Idle of me to blame you! Passion and Pleasure dies;
The Loves of our youth are foolish, the thoughts of our age are wise.
Springtime fades, and the violets last but a little while,
Yet who can remember the violets when the rich, red roses smile?
Summer is welded into an Autumn of brief regret,
So it wouldn’t be human nature for a woman – not to forget.
The twilight hurts me a little; only a Winter since
It wafted us into Fairy-land, and I was the Fairy Prince;
You swore me a staunch allegiance, so gave you my heart for Throne,
And even the Sprites and the Wood-nymphs discreetly left us alone!
But now reality’s bitter; instead of the Twilight spells
I hear the whistle of dum-dums – the breaking of shrapnel shells;
The voices of rough-chinned comrades come back of the trench to me,
And the bullet that found my brother has broken my reverie.
I shall think of you as I loved you; I shall never strive to guess
Whose are the arms you rest in, whose are the lips you press.
Maybe some word may recall me – break in on your laughter gay –
And the Someone-You-Love will question who beckons your thoughts away;
And you shall smile as you answer – “My wonderful Fairy Prince,
It was a waltz that reminded me of Someone I loved – long since!”
Springtime dies, and the roses fade, the pale stars wane and set,
So it wouldn’t be human nature for a woman – not to forget.