My poor flower! May this therapy ease you into sleep, And the folding of jewelless hands! You are beginning to be sick Of the incurable disease of age, And the weariness of futile flesh! THE NEGRO WARD Scarce had I written: it were best To crush this love, to give you up, Drink at one draught the bitter cup, And kill this new life in my breast, Than Parker's breathing seemed to give Ominous sound the end was near. I did so want this man to live-- This negro soldier, dear. 'Twas three in the morning, all was still But Parker's rattle in the throat, Outside I heard the whippoorwill. The new moon like an Indian boat Hung just above the darkened grove, Where you and I had pledged our love, When you were here. Such precious hours, Such fleeting moments then were ours... Alone here in the silent ward, With Parker dying, I was scared. His breath came short, his lips were blue. I asked him: "Is there something more, Parker, that I can do for you?" "Please hold my hand," he said. Before I took it, it was growing cold-- Death, how quick it comes! Then next I seemed to hear the drums-- For I had fainted for his eyes That stared with such a wide surprise, As the lids fell apart they stared, As if they saw what to behold Had startled his poor soul which fared Where it would not. I heard the drums, The bugle next, lay there so faint With Parker's eyes still in my view, Like bubble motes which flit and paint Themselves upon the heaven's blue. An orderly had mailed meanwhile That letter, to you, there I lay Too weak to write again, unsay What I had written. Down the aisle, Between our beds a step I heard, A voice: "Our order's here, we leave In half an hour for France." I stirred Like a dead thing, could scarce conceive What tragedy was come. No chance To write you or to telegraph. In twelve hours more, as in a trance I looked from Ellis Island, where My chums could gayly talk and laugh. In two hours more we sailed for France. All this was hard, but still to bear The knowledge of you, your despair, Or change, or bitterness, if you thought That letter came from me, was wrought Out of a heart that could not stake Its own blood for your sake.