Out of the noise of tired people working,
⁠Harried with thoughts of war and lists of dead,
His beauty met me like a fresh wind blowing,
⁠Clean boyish beauty and high-held head.

Eyes that told secrets, lips that would not tell them,
⁠Fearless and shy the young unwearied eyes—
Men die by millions now, because God blunders,
⁠Yet to have made this boy he must be wise.