To E. T by Robert Frost — Read

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?