E. D. M.

There is a heart I knew in other days,
Not ever far from any one day's thought;
One pure as are the purest. All the years
Of battle or of peace, of joy or grief,
Take him no further from me. Oftentimes,
When the sweet tenderness of some glad girl
Disturbs with tears, full suddenly I know
It is because one memory ever dear
Is matched a moment with its living kin.
Or when at hearing of some gallant deed
My throat fills, and I may not dare to say
The quick praise in me, then I know, alas!
'T is by this dear dead nobleness my soul is stirred.
He lived, he loved, he died. Brief epitaph!
What hour of duty in the long grim wards
Poisoned his life, I know not. Painfully
He sickened, yearning for the strife of War
That went its thunderous way unhelped of him;
And then he died. A little duty done;
A little love for many, much for me,
And that was all beneath this earthly sun.

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