Ernest Hemingway (21 July 1899 - 2 July 1961 / Oak Park, Illinois)
Killed Paive--July 8--1918
All the sweet pulsing aches
And gentle hurtings
That were you,
Are gone into the sullen dark.
Now in the night you come unsmiling
To lie with me
A dull, cold, rigid bayonet
On my hot-swollen, throbbing soul.
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.