Fleurette


            (The Wounded Canadian Speaks)

            My leg? It's off at the knee.
            Do I miss it? Well, some. You see
                I've had it since I was born;
                And lately a devilish corn.
            (I rather chuckle with glee
                To think how I've fooled that corn.)

            But I'll hobble around all right.
                It isn't that, it's my face.
            Oh I know I'm a hideous sight,
                Hardly a thing in place;
            Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.
                Nurse won't give me a glass,
                But I see the folks as they pass
            Shudder and turn away;
                Turn away in distress . . .
                Mirror enough, I guess.

            I'm gay! You bet I AM gay;
                But I wasn't a while ago.
            If you'd seen me even to-day,
                The darndest picture of woe,
            With this Caliban mug of mine,
                So ravaged and raw and red,
            Turned to the wall -- in fine,
                Wishing that I was dead. . . .
            What has happened since then,
                Since I lay with my face to the wall,
            The most despairing of men?
                Listen! I'll tell you all.

            That poilu across the way,
                With the shrapnel wound in his head,
            Has a sister: she came to-day
                To sit awhile by his bed.
            All morning I heard him fret:
                "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"

            Then sudden, a joyous cry;
                The tripping of little feet,
            The softest, tenderest sigh,
                A voice so fresh and sweet;
            Clear as a silver bell,
                Fresh as the morning dews:
            "C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel!
                Mon fre^re, comme je suis heureuse!"

            So over the blanket's rim
                I raised my terrible face,
            And I saw -- how I envied him!
                A girl of such delicate grace;
            Sixteen, all laughter and love;
                As gay as a linnet, and yet
            As tenderly sweet as a dove;
                Half woman, half child -- Fleurette.

            Then I turned to the wall again.
                (I was awfully blue, you see),
            And I thought with a bitter pain:
                "Such visions are not for me."
            So there like a log I lay,
                All hidden, I thought, from view,
            When sudden I heard her say:
                "Ah! Who is that malheureux?"
            Then briefly I heard him tell
                (However he came to know)
            How I'd smothered a bomb that fell
                Into the trench, and so
            None of my men were hit,
                Though it busted me up a bit.

            Well, I didn't quiver an eye,
                And he chattered and there she sat;
            And I fancied I heard her sigh --
                But I wouldn't just swear to that.
            And maybe she wasn't so bright,
                Though she talked in a merry strain,
            And I closed my eyes ever so tight,
                Yet I saw her ever so plain:
            Her dear little tilted nose,
                Her delicate, dimpled chin,
            Her mouth like a budding rose,
                And the glistening pearls within;
            Her eyes like the violet:
            Such a rare little queen -- Fleurette.

            And at last when she rose to go,
                The light was a little dim,
            And I ventured to peep, and so
                I saw her, graceful and slim,
            And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh
                How I envied and envied him!

            So when she was gone I said
                In rather a dreary voice
            To him of the opposite bed:
                "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice!
            But me, I'm a thing of dread.
                For me nevermore the bliss,
                The thrill of a woman's kiss."

            Then I stopped, for lo! she was there,
                And a great light shone in her eyes;
            And me! I could only stare,
                I was taken so by surprise,
            When gently she bent her head:
                "May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said.

            Then she kissed my burning lips
                With her mouth like a scented flower,
            And I thrilled to the finger-tips,
                And I hadn't even the power
            To say: "God bless you, dear!"
            And I felt such a precious tear
                Fall on my withered cheek,
                And darn it! I couldn't speak.

            And so she went sadly away,
                And I knew that my eyes were wet.
            Ah, not to my dying day
                Will I forget, forget!
            Can you wonder now I am gay?
                God bless her, that little Fleurette!