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    To E. T.

    by Robert Frost
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    I slumbered with your poems on my breast
    Spread open as I dropped them half-read through
    Like dove wings on a figure on a tomb
    To see, if in a dream they brought of you,

    I might not have the chance I missed in life
    Through some delay, and call you to your face
    First soldier, and then poet, and then both,
    Who died a soldier-poet of your race.

    I meant, you meant, that nothing should remain
    Unsaid between us, brother, and this remained--
    And one thing more that was not then to say:
    The Victory for what it lost and gained.

    You went to meet the shell's embrace of fire
    On Vimy Ridge; and when you fell that day
    The war seemed over more for you than me,
    But now for me than you--the other way.

    How over, though, for even me who knew
    The foe thrust back unsafe beyond the Rhine,
    If I was not to speak of it to you
    And see you pleased once more with words of mine?
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