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Robert Frost

(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963 / San Francisco)

To E.T.


I slumbered with your poems on my breast
Spread open as I dropped them half-read through
Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
To see, if in a dream they brought of you,

I might not have the chance I missed in life
Through some delay, and call you to your face
First soldier, and then poet, and then both,
Who died a soldier-poet of your race.

I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain
Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained--
And one thing more that was not then to say:
The Victory for what it lost and gained.

You went to meet the shell's embrace of fire
On Vimy Ridge; and when you fell that day
The war seemed over more for you than me,
But now for me than you--the other way.

How over, though, for even me who knew
The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine,
If I was not to speak of it to you
And see you pleased once more with words of mine?

Submitted: Friday, January 03, 2003

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  • Bronze Star - 6,774 Points * Sunprincess * (3/18/2014 9:19:00 AM)

    ........the world would have been a much different place if there was never any war ever....
    it is a terrible and horrific tragedy when brother kills brother... (Report) Reply

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