October, 1915
When the white rose and the red spill their leaves upon the way,
Make a scented path to tread through the long, sun-haunted day;
I half-dreaming all forget in the summer’s idle grace,
That the city’s claim will come, bid me back into my place.
How can I go forth again to the hot and restless town,
Where the stranger people pass ever careless up and down,
Where convention chills each hand from a kind and friendly hold?
Here the robin to my call cheerful comes, alert and bold.
Summer with her pretty ways now is taking leave of me,
Slow the ling’ring roses fall, softly sings the honey-bee,
How can I go back again to the horrors of the town,
Where the husky voice of war fiercely echoes up and down?
