VIII
A Boy
 

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.