Robert Frost (1874–1963). Miscellaneous Poems to 1920. 1920.
13. To E.T.
(From The Yale Review, April 1920.)I
Spread open as I dropped them half-read through
Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
To see, if in a dream they brought of you,
Through some delay, and call you to your face
First soldier, and then poet, and then both,
Who died a soldier-poet of your race.
Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained—
And one thing more that was not then to say:
The Victory for what it lost and gained.
On Vimy Ridge; and when you fell that day
The war seemed over more for you than me,
But now for me than you—the other way.
The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine,
If I was not to speak of it to you
And see you please once more with words of mine?