So for a month Elenor Murray lay and heard the bells, And breathed the fragrance of the flowering city That floated through her window, in the stillness Of the convent dreamed, and said to self: This place Is good to die in, who is there to tell That I am here? There was no one. To them She gave her name, but said: "Till I am well Let me remain, and if I die, some place Must be for me for burial, put me there. And if I live to go again to France And join my unit, let me have a writing That I did not desert, was stricken here And could not leave. For while I stole away From Nice to get a glimpse of Italy, I might have done so in my furlough time, And not stayed over it." And to Elenor The nuns said: "We will help you, but for now Rest and put by anxieties." On a day Elenor Murray made confessional. And to the nuns told bit by bit her life, Her childhood, schooling, travels, work in the war, What fate had followed her, what sufferings. And Sister Mary, she who saw her first, And held the tray of gold with wine and broth, Sat often with her, read to her, and said: "Letters will go ahead of you to clear Your absence over time--be not afraid, All will be well." And so when Elenor Murray Arose to leave she found all things prepared: A cab to take her to the train, compartments Reserved for her from place to place, her fare And tickets paid for, till at last she came To Brest and joined her unit, in three days Looked at the rolling waters as the ship Drove to America--such a coming home! To what and whom? * * * * *