"Upon the lawn She took her diary from her bag and read What she had done in France; years past as well. Began to tell me of a Simeon Strong Whom she was pledged to marry years before. How jealousy of Simeon Strong destroyed His love, and all because in innocence She had received some roses from a friend. That led to other men that she had known Who wished to marry her, as she said. But most She talked of Simeon Strong; then of a man Who had absorbed her life until she went In training as a nurse, a married man, Whom she had put away, himself forgetting A hopeless love he crushed. Until at last I said, no more, my dear--The past is dead, What is the past to me? It could not be That you could live and never meet a man To love you, whom you loved. And then at last She put the diary in her bag, we walked And scanned the village from the heights; the train Took back for Paris, went to dine, be gay. This afternoon was the last, this night the last. To-morrow she was going back to work, And I was to resume my duties too, Both hopeful for another meeting soon, The war's end, a re-union, some solution Of what was now a problem hard to bear." "We left our dinner early, she was tired, There in our room again we clung together, Grieved for the morrow. Sadness fell upon us, Her eyes were veiled, her voice was low, her speech Was brief and nebulous. She soon disrobed, Lay with her hair spread out upon the pillow, One hand above the coverlet." "And soon Was lying with head turned from me. I sat And read to man my grief. You see the war Blew to intenser flame all moods, all love, All grief at parting, fear, or doubt. At last As I looked up to see her I could see Her breast with sleep arise and fall. The silence Of night was on the city, even her breath I heard as she was sleeping--for myself I wondered what I was and why I was, What world is this and why, and if there be God who creates us to this life, then why This agony of living, peace or war; This agony which grows greater, never less, And multiplies its sources with the days, Increases its perplexities with time, And gives the soul no rest. And why this love, This woman in my life. The mystery Of my own torture asked to be explained. And why I married whom I married, why She was content to stand far off and watch My crucifixion. Why?"