Eighth Grade

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 darnedest 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 on 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:

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