spiker's blog: "War"

SHE kissed me when she said good-bye
A child's kiss, neither bold nor shy.

We had met but a few short summer hours;
Talked of the sun, the wind, the flowers,

Sports and people; had rambled through
A casual catchy song or two,

And walked with arms linked to the car
By the light of a single misty star.

(It was war-time, you see, and the streets were dark
Lest the ravishing Hun should find a mark.)

And so we turned to say good-bye;
But somehow or other, I don't know why,

-Perhaps t'was the feel of the khaki coat
(She'd a brother in Flanders then) that smote

Her heart to a sudden tenderness
Which issued in that swift caress

Somehow, to her, at any rate
A mere hand-clasp seemed inadequate;

And so she lifted her dewy face
And kissed me but without a trace

Of passion, and we said good-bye. . .
A child's kiss, . . . neither bold nor shy.

My friend, I like you it seemed to say-
Here's to our meeting again some day!
Some happier day. . . .
Good-bye.

Bernard Freeman Trotter, Killed in France, 1917