"By the time you get this they will be out, blowing there under that lovely rosy sky.

Are they really as bright and golden as ever, Rilla?
It seems to me that they must be dyed red with blood--like our poppies here.

And every whisper of spring will be falling as a violet in Rainbow Valley.
"There is a young moon tonight--a slender, silver, lovely thing hanging over these pits of torment.

Will you see it tonight over the maple grove?
"I'm enclosing a little scrap of verse, Rilla.

I wrote it one evening in my trench dug-out by the light of a bit of candle--or rather it came to me there--I didn't feel as if I were writing it--something seemed to use me as an instrument.