And feel between my clasped hands, one
Slight brown small hand, lean as a boy’s,
And hear the murmur of your voice—
Utterly peaceful, lapped around
With sleepy harmonies of sound,
Forgetful of the wings, the ruth,
The bitter-sick unrest of youth,
The causeless fight that scars the will ...
But there’s the eternal combat still!
The banner struck with darts like sleet,