Les Mouches Fantastiques (amateur journal)/April 1918/To Percy

Dear boy, there were so many things to say
I could not speak, so many songs to to sing
I could not pluck the chords for me to play
Ever The old string ever, remembering
That I loved you, who wontoned down the way,
Half-fearfully perhaps, in that first spring.
Oh all happiness of yesterday,
The memory that tears cannot efface,
The rose-hung hours we squandered carelessly
Rallying down the sunlit secret rows
I, dreamer, dreamt led through eternity,
Death uniting at the feet of Time, and then....
Dear boy, could I have yesterday again
And you to love a little hour, the knows?