Last Leave
He
bent o'er her flaming face,
The lustrous radiance of her hair
Lending to his countenance
Of searing passioned soul
Eager and thrilled at the joy
Of holding close his treasure
So soon to be alone.
He kissed her brow tenderly
Half knowing how a twisting hell
Was storming through her frightened brain:
A horror of half imprinted hues;
Of blood and gore and cannons roar:
Of twisted steel and broken file;
Of screaming bombs and roaring planes;
Of sirens whine and leaping flames;
And through this maddening uproar
She tried to see him face to face
Unscathed, unscarred and free
A. Isfeld Jun 28 1943