The eager heart, come weary home at last,

Bore and bewildered, is content to see

Familiar shapes unhaunted by the past,

His books and chair and pipe, his utterly.

These older, homelier things that stood. him well,

That offer no sharp pain to thrust at one

Wounded. in wars that rage through heaven and hell,

Comfort and rest the heart betrayed, undone.

Only to watch, and move not, and not think -

His heart is grateful for an hour of peace,

As the parched throat is grateful for a drink,

As worn-out fighters for a short release.

This is but truce. Again wings dark above

With memory, rouse the bitter war with love.