Letter XLIV

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To-morrow I again go forward, which means rising early and taking a long plod through the snows; that's one reason for not writing any more, and another is that our one poor candle is literally on its last legs.

Your poem, written years ago when the poor were marching in London, is often in my mind:

    "Yesterday and to-day
    Have been heavy with labour and sorrow;
    I should faint if I did not see
    The day that is after to-morrow."

And there's that last verse which prophesied utterly the spirit in which we men at the Front are fighting to-day:

    "And for me, with spirit elate
    The mire and the fog I press thorough,
    For Heaven shines under the cloud
    Of the day that is after to-morrow."

We civilians who have been taught so long to love our enemies and do good to them who hate us--much too long ever to make professional soldiers--are watching with our hearts in our eyes for that day which conies after to-morrow. Meanwhile we plod on determinedly, hoping for the hidden glory.

Yours very lovingly,
Con.