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FRONT LINE
59
She passes with her perfect countersign,
Her green;
She wanders in her garden,
Dropping her buds like tears,
Spreading her lovely grief upon the graves of men.
FRONT LINE
Standing on the fire-step,
Harking into the dark,
The black was filled with figures
His comrade could not mark.
Because it was softly snowing,
Because it was Christmastide,
He saw three figures passing
Glittering in their pride.
One rode a cream-white camel,
One was a blackamoor,
One a bearded Persian;
They all rode up to the door.
They all rode up to the stable-door,
Dismounted, and bent the knee.
The door flamed open like a rose,
But more he could not see.
