| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | The Soldier to Helen | | By Loureine Aber |
| | From “Laurel Wreaths”
DO not think of me sadly—only me—sadly, | |
| 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 |
| |
| 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. | |
| |
| 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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