They sent him back to her. The letter came <br />Saying… And she could have him. And before <br />She could be sure there was no hidden ill <br />Under the formal writing, he was in her sight, <br />Living. They gave him back to her alive— <br />How else? They are not known to send the dead— <br />And not disfigured visibly. His face? <br />His hands? She had to look, and ask, <br />“What was it, dear?” And she had given all <br />And still she had all—they had—they the lucky! <br />Wasn’t she glad now? Everything seemed won, <br />And all the rest for them permissible ease. <br />She had to ask, “What was it, dear?” <br /> <br />“Enough, <br />Yet not enough. A bullet through and through, <br />High in the breast. Nothing but what good care <br />And medicine and rest, and you a week, <br />Can cure me of to go again.” The same <br />Grim giving to do over for them both. <br />She dared no more than ask him with her eyes <br />How was it with him for a second trial. <br />And with his eyes he asked her not to ask. <br />They had given him back to her, but not to keep.<br /><br />Robert Lee Frost<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/not-to-keep-2/
