White grew her face as the thorn’s tender bloom,
White as the mist from the valley of doom!
Swift was her going—her head on my breast
Drooped like a flower that winter has pressed—
Elana, Elana! My strong one, my white one!
Empty the arms that your beauty had blessed.
Killed in Action
MY father lived his three-score years; my son lived twenty-two;
One looked long back on work well done, and one had all to do—
Yet which the better served his world, I know not, nor do you!
Life taught my father all her lore till he grew wise and gray,
She did but whisper to my son before she turned away—
Yet which her deepest secret held only they two might say.
Peace brought my father restful days, with love and fame for wage;
War gave my son an unmarked grave and an unwritten page—
Who shall declare which gift conveyed the greater heritage?
Spring Came In
SPRING came in with a red-wing’s feather
And yellow clumps of the wild marshmallow—
O happy bird, can you tell me whether
In distant France they have April weather?
And little pools that are sunny and shallow?
My soul is awake and my pulse is racing—
My heart is aware that the birds are mating—
Oh, my heart’s like a cloud that the wind is chasing
O’er the earth’s green blur with its silver tracing
To that sad France where there’s someone waiting!
O Spring! begone with your too-sweet clover
And all your bees with honey to carry—
Come again when the war is over,
Come, dear Spring, when you bring my lover!
Yet come no more, should he tarry . . . tarry!