Perhaps t'was the feel of the khaki coat
(She'd a brother in Flanders then) that smote
Her heart to a sudden tenderness
Which issued in that swift caress—
Somehow, to her, at any rate
A mere hand-clasp seemed inadequate;
And so she lifted her dewy face
And kissed me—but without a trace
Of passion,—and we said good-bye . . .
A child's kiss. . . . neither bold nor shy.
My friend, I like you—it seemed to say—
Here's to our meeting again some day!
Some happier day . . .
Good-bye.
August 1916.
THE POPLARS
O, a lush green English meadow—it's there that I
would lie—
A skylark singing overhead, scarce present to the eye,
And a row of wind-blown poplars against an English sky.
The elm is aspiration and death is in the yew,
And beauty dwells in every tree from Lapland to Peru;
But there's magic in the poplars when the wind goes through.
When the wind goes through the poplars and blows them silver white,
The wonder of the universe is flashed before my sight:
I see immortal visions; I know a god's delight.
