CXIV
Any Soldier's Wife
I
LISTEN: going up the street
The echo of my soldier's feet.
A sound already growing dim
Is all I now can hold of him.
In this wide world that thinning sound—
First threat of lengthening miles of ground—
Is all the wealth I still possess,
My dwindling store of loveliness;
An ebbing tide, a fading ghost,
Poor wraith of all I cherish most.
The crowned heart of love's delight
Is hunted out into the night:
A golden pinnacle of flame
Is turned to smoke—a sigh—a name:
The song of angels' dancing feet
Become an echo in the street. . . .
O dying sound, O scarce-drawn breath,
You whisper, fail; and then comes death.
Darkness: and no footstep more.
Turn, go in, and shut the door.
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