By HORTENSE FLEXNER.
He had a woodland look--half-startled, gay--
As if his eyes, light-thirsty, had not learned
To wake accustomed on earth's joyous day,
A child, whose merriment and wonder burned
In harmless flame, even his uniform
Was but a lie to hide his wind-wild grace,
Whose limbs were rounded youth, too supple, warm,
To hold the measure of the street-made pace.
Music and marching--colors in the sky--
The crowded station, then the train--farewell!
For all he had the glance, exultant, shy,
That seemed to marvel, "More to see--to tell!"
Yet with his breathing moved, hid by his coat,
A numbered, metal disk, strapped round his throat!