Harriet Monroe, ed. (18601936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 191222. | | The Soldier to Helen | By Loureine Aber |
| From Laurel Wreaths DO not think of me sadlyonly mesadly, | |
I beseech you. | |
Let your little hands slur not an instant over the sweet passages, | |
Let not your lips be smitten | |
It is well. | 5 |
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Here in the silver snuff of dusk, | |
That will put my single candle out, I know, | |
Silently, some evening, when the moon hangs low | |
Here in the mellow hush of war | |
(War is a hush, that puts your legs on straighter, | 10 |
And your torso fitter for the bait of gods), | |
I am well. | |
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Candle or flame or moth | |
Do not worry, do not slip a moment on the yellow path | |
Your little feet dance over, as a wild faun on the hills. | 15 |
Do not be troubled | |
It is well. | | | |
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