Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/196

 196

Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.

Nurse won't give me a glass,

But I see the folks as they pass

Shudder and turn away;

Turn away in distress. . ..

Mirror enough, I guess.

I'm gay! You bet I am gay,

But I wasn't a while ago.

If you'd seen me even to-day,

The darnedest picture of woe,

With this Caliban mug of mine,

So ravaged and raw and red,

Turned to the wall—in fine

Wishing that I were dead. ..

What has happened since then,

Since I lay with my face to the wall,

The most despairing of men!

Listen! I'll tell you all.

That poilu across the way,

With the shrapnel wound in his head,

Has a sister: she came to-day

To sit awhile by his bed.

All morning I heard him fret:

"Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"

Then sudden, a joyous cry;

The tripping of little feet;

The softest, tenderest sigh;

A voice so fresh and sweet;

Clear as a silver bell,

Fresh as the morning dews:

"C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel!

Mon frere, comme je suis heureuse!"

So over the blanket's rim

I raised my terrible face,

And I saw—how I envied him!

A girl of such delicate grace;

Sixteen, all laughter and love;

As gay as a linnet, and yet

As tenderly sweet as a dove;

Half woman, half child—Fleurette.