To return How much did Elenor Murray use her mind, How much her instincts, leave herself alone Let nature have its way? I think I know: But first you have the artist soul; and next The soul half artist, prisoned usually In limitations where the soul, half artist Between depressions and discouragements Rises in hope and knocks. Why, I can tell them The moment they touch keys or talk to me. I hear their knuckles knocking on the walls, Insuperable partitions made of wood, When seeking tones or words; they have the hint, But cannot open, manifest themselves. So was it with this girl, she was all lover, Half artist, what a torture for a soul, And what escape for her! She could not play, Had never played, no matter what the chance. I think there is no curse like being dumb When every waking moment, every dream Keeps crying to speak out. This is her case: The girl was dumb, like that dumb woman here Whose dress caught fire, and in the dining room Was burned to death while all her family Were in the house, to whom she could not cry! You asked about her going to the war, Her sacrifice in that, and if I think She found expression there--yes, of a kind, But not the kind she hungered for, not music. She found adventure there, excitement too. That uses up the soul's power, takes the place Of better self-expression. But you see I do not think self-immolation life, I know it to be death. Now, look a minute: Why did she join the church? why to forget! Why did she go to war? why to forget. And at the last, this thing called sacrifice Rose up with meaning in her eyes. You see They tell around here now she often said: "I'm going to the war to be swept under." Now comes your Christian idea: Let me die, But die in service of the race, in giving I waste myself for others, give myself! Let God take notice, and reward the gift! This is the failure's recourse often-times, A prodigal flinging of the self--let God Find what He can of good, or find all good. I have abandoned all control, all thought Of finding my soul otherwise, if here I find my soul, a doubt that makes the gift Not less abandoned.