Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/299

 CXII

AS there love once? I have forgotten her.

Was there grief once? Grief still is mine.

Other loves I have; men rough, but men who stir

More joy, more grief than love of thee and thine.

Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth,

Lined by the wind, burned by the sun;

Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth,

As whose children, brothers we are and one.

And any moment may descend hot death

To shatter limbs! pulp, tear, and blast

Belovèd soldiers who love rude life and breath

Not less for dying faithful to the last.

O the fading eyes, the grimèd face turned bony,

Oped, black, gushing mouth, fallen head,

Failing pressure of a held hand shrunk and stony,

O sudden spasm, release of the dead!

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