The Recruit.
By HORTENSE FLEXNER.
He had a woodland look—half-startled, gay—
As if his eyes, light-thirsty, had not learned
To wake accustomed on earth's joyous day,
A child, whose merriment and wonder burned
In harmless flame, even his uniform
Was but a lie to hide his wind-wild grace,
Whose limbs were rounded youth, too supple, warm,