Marie Lacoste.
Into a ward of the whitewashed walls,
Where the dead and dying lay,
Wounded by bayonets, shells, and balls,
Somebody’s darling was borne one day—
Somebody’s darling, so young and so brave,
Wearing yet on his pale, sweet face,
Soon to be hid by the dust of the grave,
The lingering light of his boyhood’s grace.
Matted and damp are the curls of gold,