Now that you too must shortly go the way
Which in these bloodshot years uncounted men
Have gone in vanishing armies day by day,
And in their numbers will not come again:
I must not strain the moments of our meeting
Striving for each look, each accent, not to miss,
Or question of our parting and our greeting,
Is this the last of all? is this—or this?
Last sight of all it may be with these eyes,
Last touch, last hearing, since eyes, hands, and ears,
Even serving love, are our mortalities,
And cling to what they own in mortal fears:—
But oh, let end what will, I hold you fast
By immortal love, which has no first or last.
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War from the Women's perspective. Saying Goodbye to their men, never knowing if they would see each other again. Drinking in the way they look, ingesting every thing about them to file away and open each time they have dark, desolate moments. Lingering looks, holding on tightly before their man leaves. Heart-wrenching and emotional poems such as this are priceless.
Von
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