Know you as well, have confidence in you, Make ready to go, and bring the letters back." And on the day that Loveridge Chase departs To get the letters in New York, Bernard, A veteran of Belleau, married that day To Amy Whidden, on a lofty dune At Millers, Indiana, with his bride-- Long quiet, tells her something of the war. These soldiers cannot speak what they have lived. But Elenor Murray helps him; for the talk Of Elenor Murray runs the rounds, so many Stations whence the talk is sent:--the men Or women who had known her, came in touch Somehow with her. These newly wedded two Go out to see blue water, yellow sand, And watch the white caps pat the sky, and hear The intermittent whispers of the waves. And here Bernard, the soldier, tells his bride Of Elenor Murray and their days at Nice: AT NICE Dear, let me tell you, safe beside you now, Your hand in mine, here from this peak of sand, Under this pine tree, where the wild grapes spill Their fragrance on the lake breeze, from that oak Half buried in the sand, devoured by sand-- The water of the lake is just as blue As the sea is there at Nice, the caps as white As foam around Mont Boron, Cap Ferrat. Here let me tell you things you do not know, I could not write, repeat what well you know, How love of you sustained me, never changed, But through a love was brighter, flame of the torch I bore for you in battle, as an incense Cast in a flame awakes the deeper essence Of fire and makes it mount. And I am here-- Here now with you at last--the war is over-- I have this aching side, these languid mornings, And pray for that old strength which never knew Fatigue or pain--but I am here with you, You are my bride now, I have earned you, dear. I fought the fight, endured the endless days When rain fell, days of absence, and the days Of danger when my only prayer was this: Give me, O God, to see you once again. This is the deepest rapture, tragedy Of this our life, beyond our minds to fathom, A thing to stand in awe of, touch in reverence, That we--we mortals, find in one another Such source of ecstasy, of pain. My love, I lay there in the hospital so weak, Flopping my hands upon the coverlet, And praying God to live. In such an hour To be away from you! There are no words To speak the weary hours of fear and thought, In such an absence, facing death, perhaps, A burial in France, with thoughts of you, Mourning some years, perhaps, healed partly then And wedded to another; then at last Myself forgot, or nearly so, and life Taking you on with duties, house and children; And my poor self forgotten, gone to dust, Wasted along the soil of France.