I must not bewail,
Falter or grow pale.
Say I'm ill or sit wrapped in a shawl;
He was not my brother,
Nor acknowledged lover --
No one knew I cared for him at all.
Just by chance they said,
'Have you heard he's dead?'
As they handed me a cup of tea:
One among so many,
Guess they had not any --
He was just the whole wide world to me.
Life must still go on,
Work is to be done --
These things happen every day I know:
I was nothing to him
Have no right to rue him,
Save the right of having loved him so.
- published anonymously in the May 1917 Gazette of the 3rd London General Hospital in Wandsworth.
It's been a bit of a rough couple of days for me, but if you know me you know the cure I seek is keeping busy. This means I'm behind on LJ and ... well, I'm dehydrated from yesterday, I was on my feet for hours and hours and didn't remember to get some water. I also didn't get home last night until 2 AM thanks to some tube wierdness around last tube time, though I did find a place that sold congee (completely inferior to the "original" Hing Loon in Seattle).
So ... on my way out Thursday night I saw this poem in the Guardian, in an article about the poetry of the Great War. It's sad and beautiful, so I wanted to share it, so much that I carefully tore the pages out of the newspaper, folded them up in my pocket, and took them home with me.