THE RIFLE
In hospital. Italy: 1918.
Again, my rifle, O again to grasp you
And to a soldier's breast once more enclasp you!
You never left my hand, until the wound,
Opening my side, colored the sacred ground;
And through the night, when half my squad lay dying,
I saw, before I fell, our foemen flying.
My well-loved rifle, I was true to you,—
True to my oath! Do you to me be true!
O once again to find dear comrades living!
To feel the battle-thrill! The fierce, sweet giving,—
All, all for Italy! a band of brothers!—
To hear our Captain's voice, high over others,—
"Now, sons of Italy, your foes destroy!
Avanti! sangue freddo! Ho! Savoy!"
My gun, so lie I dreaming, day and night,
When I shall bear you in the last glad fight!
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