And then I dreamed that—suddenly, strangely clear—
A voice I knew not, faltered at my ear:
"Courage!" . . . Your own dear voice, loved since, and known!
And now that she sleeps well, come times her voice
Whispers in day-dreams: "Courage, son! Rejoice
That, leaving you, I left you not alone."
IN the sheltered garden, pale beneath the moon,
(Drenched with swaying fragrance, redolent with June!)
There, among the shadows, some one lingers yet—
Pierrot, the lover, parts from Pierrette.
Bugles, bugles, bugles, blaring down the wind,
Sound the flaming challenge—Leave your dreams behind!
Come away from shadows, turn your back on June—
Pierrot, go forward to face the golden noon!
In the muddy trenches, black and torn and still,
(How the charge swept over, to break against the hill!)
Huddled in the shadows, boyish figures lie—
They whom Death, saluting, called upon to die.
Bugles, ghostly bugles, whispering down the wind—
Dreams too soon are over, gardens left behind.
Only shadows linger, for love does not forget—
Pierrot goes forward—but what of Pierrette?
October, 1917.
SOMETHING sings gently through the din of battle,
Something spreads very softly rim on rim,
And every soldier hears, at times, a murmur
Tender, incessant,—dim.