Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/284

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How can they know it?—Mother, sister, wife,

Friends, comrades, whoso else is dear,

How can they know?—Yet haply, half in fear,

Seeing a long-time absent face once more,

Something they note which was not there before,

—Perchance, a certain habit of the eye,

Perchance, an alter'd accent in the speech—

Showing he is not what he was of yore.

Such little, curious signs they note. Yet each

Doth in its little, nameless way

Some portion of the truth betray.

Such tokens do not lie!

The change is there; the change is true!

And so, what wonder if the outward view

Do to the eye of Love unroll

Some hint of a transformèd soul?

—Some hint; for even Love dare peep

No further in that troubled deep;

And things there be too stern and dark

To live in any outward mark;

The things that they alone can tell,

Like Dante, who have walk'd in hell. E. Armine Wodehouse

O-DAY the sun shines bright,

The skies are fair;

There is a delicate freshness in the air,

Which, like a nimble sprite,

Plays lightly on my cheek and lifts my hair.

And, as I look about me—lo!

I see a world I do not know!

As though some soft celestial beam,

Some clean and wholesome grace

Had purgèd half the foulness of the place