Dewfall—and I sat and read
A letter wet with tears she shed:
First grief like a blight-wind blows,
Blistering life's summer-rose.
Gun-fire—and I tried to weep
O’er a face that seemed to sleep—
Far away from home and those
Who saw our love grow like a rose.
Sun-down—and a grey-haired man
Pores o’er life’s torn chart and plan;
Traces lines almost erased,
Traces letters half defaced:
By his side a faded rose,
Yellow, withered,—“one of those.”
