by Vera Brittain
I hear your voices in the whispering trees,
I see your footprints on each grassy track,
Your laughter echoes gaily down the breeze—
But you will not come back.
The twilight skies are tender with your smile,
The stars look down with eyes for which I yearn,
I dream that you are with me all the while—
But you will not return.
The flowers are gay in gardens that you knew,
The woods you loved are sweet with summer rain,
The fields you trod are empty now, but you
Will never come again.
June 1917.
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