Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/231

Rh Where a pink hawthorn overhangs the stream.

Ah! lazy, languid idlings on the Cher,

Sweet lotus-eatings, while my soul ranged far,

In empty musing, through a vain day-dream.

Ah! days of yester-year, whose hours flew by,

As winds blow past the tent wherein I lie,

Heedless I let you go nor knew your span.

And yet—I would not have you back again,

Even amid the misery and pain

That now is making of the boy a man.

Next May!—And if I lie in some cold grave

Dear Mother-city of my soul,

I am content to yield the life you gave

If but I nobly reach the goal.

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