First World War Poetry Digital Archive



Daily I muse on her; I muse and fret; And take her little face between each hand; But spare her---even imagined---kisses yet. It is because, when first that face I scanned, It wakened doubts I may no more forget, And curious dreads I cannot understand. They reach beyond the fears fond lovers pet, That faith may change ere death; for they demand:

'What of her after Death? Shall we persist? Will Death be merciful and keep her whole?' In wonderment at this, I have not kissed; And even now methought a whisper stole: 'Hast thou so learned Love's Law, and yet not wist Her Beauty lives not? How, then, can her Soul?'

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