XXXVII

 

I did not lose my heart in summer's even,

    When roses to the moonrise burst apart:

When plumes were under heel and lead was flying,

    In blood and smoke and flame I lost my heart.

 

5I lost it to a soldier and a foeman,

    A chap that did not kill me, but he tried;

That took the sabre straight and took it striking

    And laughed and kissed his hand to me and died.