Rudyard Kipling

«Epitaphs of the War». 1914-1918. 31. The Bridegroom

Call me not false, beloved, 
    If, from thy scarce-known breast 
So little time removed, 
    In other arms I rest. 

For this more ancient bride, 
    Whom coldly I embrace, 
Was constant at my side 
    Before I saw thy face. 

Our marriage, often set— 
    By miracle delayed— 
At last is consummate, 
    And cannot be unmade. 

Live, then, whom Life shall cure, 
    Almost, of Memory, 
And leave us to endure 
    Its immortality.