Page:The Muse in Arms, Osborn (ed), 1917.djvu/303

 CXIV

I

ISTEN: going up the street

The echo of my soldier's feet.

A sound already growing dim

Is all I now can hold of him.

In this wide world that thinning sound—

First threat of lengthening miles of ground—

Is all the wealth I still possess,

My dwindling store of loveliness;

An ebbing tide, a fading ghost,

Poor wraith of all I cherish most.

The crowned heart of love's delight

Is hunted out into the night:

A golden pinnacle of flame

Is turned to smoke—a sigh—a name:

The song of angels' dancing feet

Become an echo in the street

O dying sound, O scarce-drawn breath,

You whisper, fail; and then comes death.

Darkness: and no footstep more.

Turn, go in, and shut the door.

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