(Killed in Action, April 23rd, 1917) I spoke with you but seldom, yet there lay Some nameless glamour in your written word, And thoughts of you rose often—longings stirred By dear remembrance of the sad blue-grey That dwelt within your eyes, the even sway Of your young god-like gait, the rarely heard But frank bright laughter, hallowed by a Day That made of Youth Right’s offering to the sword. So now I ponder, since your day is done, Ere dawn was past, on all you meant to me, And all the more you might have come to be, And wonder if some state, beyond the sun And shadows here, may yet completion see Of intimacy sweet though scarce begun. Malta, May 1917.
You may enjoy visiting American History for our collection of authors and their works which helped shape America during war and peace time.
Return to the Vera Brittain library , or . . . Read the next poem; Looking Westward