# Rhymes of a Red-Cross Man/Fleurette
### Fleurette

(The Wounded Canadian Speaks)
My leg? It's off at the knee. Do I miss it? Well, some. You see  I've had it since I was born;  And lately a devilish corn. (I rather chuckle with glee  To think how I've fooled that corn.)
But I'll hobble around all right.  It isn't that, it's my face. Oh I know I'm a hideous sight,  Hardly a thing in place; Sort of gargoyle, you'd say.  Nurse won't give me a glass,  But I see the folks as they pass Shudder and turn away;  Turn away in distress . . .  Mirror enough, I guess.
I'm gay! You bet I am gay;  But I wasn't a while ago. If you'd seen me even to-day,  The darndest picture of woe, With this Caliban mug of mine,  So ravaged and raw and red, Turned to the wall — in fine,  Wishing that I was dead. . . . What has happened since then,  Since I lay with my face to the wall, The most despairing of men?  Listen! I'll tell you all.
That poilu across the way,  With the shrapnel wound in his head, Has a sister: she came to-day  To sit awhile by his bed. All morning I heard him fret:  "Oh, when will she come, Fleurette?"
Then sudden, a joyous cry;  The tripping of little feet, The softest, tenderest sigh,  A voice so fresh and sweet; Clear as a silver bell,  Fresh as the morning dews: "C'est toi, c'est toi, Marcel!  Mon frère, comme je suis heureuse!"
So over the blanket's rim  I raised my terrible face, And I saw — how I envied him!  A girl of such delicate grace; Sixteen, all laughter and love;  As gay as a linnet, and yet As tenderly sweet as a dove;  Half woman, half child — Fleurette.
Then I turned to the wall again.  (I was awfully blue, you see), And I thought with a bitter pain:  "Such visions are not for me." So there like a log I lay,  All hidden, I thought, from view, When sudden I heard her say:  "Ah! Who is that malheureux?" Then briefly I heard him tell  (However he came to know) How I'd smothered a bomb that fell  Into the trench, and so None of my men were hit,  Though it busted me up a bit.
Well, I didn't quiver an eye,  And he chattered and there she sat; And I fancied I heard her sigh —  But I wouldn't just swear to that. And maybe she wasn't so bright,  Though she talked in a merry strain, And I closed my eyes ever so tight,  Yet I saw her ever so plain: Her dear little tilted nose,  Her delicate, dimpled chin, Her mouth like a budding rose,  And the glistening pearls within; Her eyes like the violet: Such a rare little queen — Fleurette.
And at last when she rose to go,  The light was a little dim, And I ventured to peep, and so  I saw her, graceful and slim, And she kissed him and kissed him, and oh  How I envied and envied him!
So when she was gone I said  In rather a dreary voice To him of the opposite bed:  "Ah, friend, how you must rejoice! But me, I'm a thing of dread.  For me nevermore the bliss,  The thrill of a woman's kiss."
Then I stopped, for lo! she was there,  And a great light shone in her eyes; And me! I could only stare,  I was taken so by surprise, When gently she bent her head:  "May I kiss you, Sergeant?" she said.
Then she kissed my burning lips  With her mouth like a scented flower, And I thrilled to the finger-tips,  And I hadn't even the power To say: "God bless you, dear!" And I felt such a precious tear  Fall on my withered cheek,  And darn it! I couldn't speak.
And so she went sadly away,  And I knew that my eyes were wet. Ah, not to my dying day  Will I forget, forget! Can you wonder now I am gay?  God bless her, that little Fleurette!