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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=349958" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>No News From The War</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">I.— At The Camp.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'IS she sitting in the meadow<br>Where the brook leaps to the mill,<br>Leaning low against the poplar,<br>Dreamily and still?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Now, with joined hands, grave, now smiling,<br>Gathering now and then<br>From her lap her woodland darlings,<br>Pale sweet cyclamen?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Sitting as she sat that evening,<br>Trying to feel that sweet same<br>Who was waiting me and knew not,<br>Feel as when I came?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Feel again the strange shy newness,<br>The betrothing one first kiss?<br>Oh, my own, you are remembering<br>In an hour like this.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>II.— In The Meadow.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'HERE, here it was he made me promise him;<br>He stood beneath that branch; here was his seat,<br>Just where the bole's shade makes the sunlights dim,<br>Beside me, at my feet.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Ah, since, so many times we have sat here:<br>And who can tell when that shall be again?<br>My love! my love!—But what have I to fear?<br>Could prayers like mine be vain?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He will not fall, my hero; he will come<br>Bringing ripe honours more to honour me;<br>He will come scatheless back, and tell his home<br>He helped to keep it free.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Oh, love! I was so proud of you before,<br>How can I be so much much prouder now?<br>And how can I grow prouder more and more?<br>Ah! but my heart knows how.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>III.— From A Special Correspondent's Letter.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0">*</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'AND still no news to matter. Fights each day;<br>Hundreds of killed and wounded; but we wait<br>This great impending battle which, they say,<br>Will be more terrible even than the late.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It must come soon: to-morrow it might be.<br>Now, since I can tell nothing, let me give<br>An incident, merely to make you see<br>How near to death all of us here must live.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">This morning, on my chosen slope, from whence<br>My watch, I thought, was safe, I chanced to see<br>A young and stalwart captain leap a fence<br>To pluck a cyclamen, not far from me,</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Which made me note his face: this afternoon<br>On that same slope I saw his body lie<br>Among a dozen. Well, you may look soon<br>For tidings of some moment. Now, good-bye.'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Augusta+Davies+Webster">Augusta Davies Webster</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=349958" data-title="No News From The War de Augusta Davies Webster" data-description="I.— At The Camp.

'IS she sitting in the meadow
Where the brook leaps to the mill,
Leaning low against the poplar,
Dreamily and still?

Now, with joined hands, grave, now smiling,
Gathering now and then
From her lap her woodland darlings,
Pale s..."></div>
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