Thank God, I'm here with you--it's real, all this is true: The roar of the water, sand-hills, infinite sky, The gulls, the distant smoke, the smell of grapes, The haze of amethyst behind us there, In those ravines of stunted oak and pine. All this is real. This is America. The very air we find from coast to coast, The sensible air for lungs seems freer here. I had no sooner landed in New York Than my arms said stretch out, there's room to stretch. I walked along the streets so happy, light Of heart and heard the newsboys, shop-girls talk: "O, what a cheese he is," or "beat it now"-- I can't describe the thrill I had to hear This loose abandoned slang spilled all around, Like coppers soiled from handling, but so real, And having power to purchase memories Of what I loved and lost awhile, my land! Well, then I wanted roast-beef, corn on cob, And had them in an hour at early lunch. I telegraphed you, gave New York a day, And came to you. We are together now, We do not dream, do we? We are together After the war, to live our lives and grow And make of love, experience, life more rich. That's what you say to me--it shall be so. Now I will tell you what I promised to tell About my illness and the battle--well, I wrote you of my illness, only hinted About the care I had, that is the point; 'Twas care alone that saved me, I was ill Beyond all words to tell. And all the while I suffered, fearing I would die; but then I could not bear to think I should not rise To join my fellows, battle once again, And charge across the trenches, take no part In crushing down the Prussian. For I knew He would be crushed at last. I could not bear To think I should not take a hand in that, Be there when he lay fallen, victory From voice to voice should pass along the lines. Well, for some weeks I lay there, and at last Words dropped around me that the time was near For blows to count--would I be there to strike? Could I get well in time? And every day A sweet voice said: "You're better, oh it's great How you are growing stronger; yesterday Your fever was but one degree, to-day It is a little higher. You must rest, Not think so much! It may be normal perhaps To-morrow or the next day. In a week You will be up and gaining, and the battle Will not be fought before then, I am sure, And not until you're well and strong again." And thus it went from day to day. Such hands Washed my hot face and bathed me, tucked me in, And fed me too. And once I said to her: "I love a girl, I must get well to fight, I must get well to go to her." And she, It was the nurse I spoke to, took my hand, And turned away with tears. You see it's there We see the big things, nothing else, the things That stand out like the mountains, lesser things Are lost like little hillocks under the shadows Of great emotions, hopes, realities.