Complete Poetical Works. Bret Harte

           None of your dandy warriors they,—

             Men from the West, but where I know not;

           Haggard and travel-stained, worn and gray,

             With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot:

           And I opened the window, and, leaning there,

             I felt in their presence the free winds blowing.

           My neck and shoulders and arms were bare,—

           I did not dream they might think me fair,

           But I had some flowers that night in my hair,

             And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing.

           And I looked from the window along the line,

             Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn,

           Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine,

             And a dark face shone from the darkening column,

           And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair,

             Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together,

           And the next I found myself standing there

           With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair,

           And the rose from my bosom tossed high in air,

             Like a blood-drop falling on plume and feather.

           Then I drew back quickly: there came a cheer,

             A rush of figures, a noise and tussle,

           And then it was over, and high and clear

             My red rose bloomed on his gun's black muzzle.

           Then far in the darkness a sharp voice cried,

             And slowly and steadily, all together,

           Shoulder to shoulder and side to side,

           Rising and falling and swaying wide,

           But bearing above them the rose, my pride,

             They marched away in the twilight weather.

           And I leaned from my window and watched my rose

             Tossed on the waves of the surging column,

           Warmed from above in the sunset glows,

             Borne from below by an impulse solemn.

           Then I shut the window.  I heard no more

             Of my soldier friend, nor my flower neither,

           But lived my life as I did before.

           I did not go as a nurse to the war,—

           Sick folks to me are a dreadful bore,—

             So I didn't go to the hospital either.

           You smile, O poet, and what do you?

             You lean from your window, and watch life's column

           Trampling and struggling through dust and dew,

             Filled with its purposes grave and solemn;

           And an act, a gesture, a face—who knows?—

             Touches your fancy to thrill and haunt you,

           And you pluck from your bosom the verse that grows

           And down it flies like my red, red rose,

           And you sit and dream as away it goes,

             And think that your duty is done,—now don't you?

           I know your answer.  I'm not yet through.

             Look at this photograph,—"In the Trenches"!

           That dead man in the coat of blue

             Holds a withered rose in his hand.  That clenches

           Nothing!—except that the sun paints true,

             And a woman is sometimes prophetic-minded.

           And that's my romance.  And, poet, you

           Take it and mould it to suit your view;

           And who knows but you may find it too

             Come to your heart once more, as mine did.