The Soldier’S Return

A brown wing beat the apple leaves and shook Some blossoms on her hair. Then, note on note, The bird’s wild music bubbled. In her book, Her old romance, she seemed to read. No look Betrayed the tumult in her trembling throat.

The thrush sang on. A dreamy wind came down From one white cloud of afternoon and fanned The dropping petals on her book and gown, And touched her hair, whose braids of quiet brown Gently she smoothed with one white jeweled hand.

Then, with her soul, it seemed, from feet to brow She felt him coming: ’t was his heart, his breath That stirred the blossom on the apple bough; His step the wood-thrush warbled to. And now Her cheek went crimson, now as white as death.

Then on the dappled page his shadow--yes, Not unexpected, yet her haste assumed Fright’s startle; and low laughter did confess His presence there, soft with his soul’s caress And happy manhood, where the rambo bloomed.

Quickly she rose and all her gladness sent Wild welcome to him. Her his unhurt arm Drew unresisted; and the soldier leant Fond lips to hers. She wept. And so they went Deep in the orchard towards the old brick farm.