If I had been there⁠—oh, how surely I would have found you, How surely killed your foe⁠—and sat by your bedside All night long, like a mouse, like a stone unstirring, Only to hear your slow breath moving the darkness, Only to hear, more precious than childish beauty, The slow tired beat of your heart.”

Wingate sat by a smoky fire Mending a stirrup with rusty wire. His brows were clenched in the workman’s frown, In a day or a week they’d be back in town, He thought of it with a brittle smile That mocked at guile for its lack of guile And mocked at ease for its lack of ease. It was better riding through rainy trees And playing tag with the Union spies Than telling ladies the pleasant lies, And yet, what else could you do, on leave?