by Sara Teasdale
OUT of the noise of tired people working,
Harried with thoughts of war and lists of dead,
His beauty met me like a fresh wind blowing,
Clean boyish beauty and high-held head.
Eyes that told secrets, lips that would not tell them,
Fearless and shy the young unwearied eyes-
Men die by millions now, because God blunders,
Yet to have made this boy he must be wise.
Last updated January 14, 2019