Poetry Archives

A letter was brought to her as she sat,
 Unsealed, unsigned.  It told her that his wound,
The writer’s, had so well recovered that
 To join his regiment he felt him bound.
But would she not wish him one short “Godspeed”,
 He asked no more.  Her greeting would suffice.
    He had resolved he never should return.
 Would she this sacrifice
Make for a dying man?  How could she read
The rest!  But forcing her eyes to the deed,
    She read.  Then dropped it in the fire to burn.