| Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). Poetry: A Magazine of Verse. 1912–22. | | | | The Censor | | By John R. C. Peyton |
| | | THE CENSOR growled to see so many letters: | |
| He lit his pipe and read them hastily. | |
| |
| One said: “Dear pal, you ought to see me now. | |
| This France is some swell place, I’m telling you! | |
| The wine is great—and oh, the women, boy!….” | 5 |
| |
| Another said: “Dear sister, pray for me. | |
| This is a cruel war—but God is good. | |
| My bunkie’s gone—went West last week, poor chap….. | |
| Dear sister, pray for me. Good-night. Good-bye.” | |
| |
| Another said: “Well, wife, how are you now?— | 10 |
| And how’s the boy? I dreamt about you both | |
| Last night. Don’t worry, dear, I’ll soon be home | |
| And now good night. These stars are kisses, dear. * * * *” | |
| |
| The Censor yawned. He was so tired of letters. | | | | |
|
|
