"When I returned I had three typhoid cases given me. And with that passion which you see in me I gave myself to save them, took this love Which fills my heart for you and nursed them with it; Said to myself to keep me on my feet When I was staggering from fatigue, 'Give now Out of this love, it may be God's own gift With which you may restore these boys to health. What matter if he love you not.' And so For twelve hours day by day I waged with death A slowly winning battle." "As they rallied, But when my strength was almost spent--what comes? This Miriam Fay writes odiously to me. She has heard something of our love, or sensed Some dereliction, since she learned that I Had not been to confessional. Anyway She writes me, writes our head-nurse. All at once A cloud of vile suspicion, like a dust Blown from an alley takes my breath away, And blinds my eyes. With all these things piled up, My labors and my sorrow, your neglect, My fears of a dishonorable discharge From service, which I love, I faint, collapse, Have streptococcus of the throat, and lie Two weeks in fever, sleepless, and with thoughts Of you, and what may happen, my disgrace. But suffering brought me friends, the officers Perhaps had heard the scandal, but they knew My heart was in the work. The major who Was the attending doctor of these boys I broke myself with nursing, cared for me, And cheered me with his praise. And so it was Your little soldier, still I call myself, Your little soldier, though you own me not, Turned failure into victory, won by pain Befriending hands. The major kept me here And intercepted my discharge, procured My furlough here in Nice." "I rose from bed, Went back to work, in nine days failed again, This time with influenza; for three weeks Was ill enough to die, for all the while My fever raged, my heart was hurting too, Because of you. When I got up again I looked a ghost, was weaker than a child, At last came here to Nice."