TO S——,
Ætat. 15
When I was fifteen?—let me see,—
It was a year of memory.
Then my nostrils first drew breath
Of the lilies of France on winds oi death;
I remember well the mounting fire
That caught my blood, the sweet desire
So to suffer, so to dare;—
That was the eve of my knighthood's prayer.
And you,—you see the awful flame,
Whereat my boyish ardors came,
Light the lands, and leap the seas,
And bathe with creeping glow the knees
Of Freedom in her chosen place,—
The peaceful temple of her race:—
Pray God, your manhood eyes may see,
Clasping the world, her victory!
Christmas, 1917.
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