To E.T

by
 I slumbered with your poems on my breast
Spread open as I dropped them half-read through
Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
To see, if in a dream they brought of you,

I might not have the chance I missed in life
Through some delay, and call you to your face
First solider, and then poet, and then both,
Who died a soldier-poet of your race.
I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained-- And one thing more that was not then to say: The Victory for what it lost and gained.
You went to meet the shell's embrace of fire On Vimy Ridge; and when you fell that day The war seemed over more for you than me, But now for me than you--the other way.
How ever, though, for even me who knew The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine, If I was not speak of it to you And see you pleased once more with words of mine?

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