Poker.

A year to-day—my diary tells—
when the dawn was a ripening blush,
And the sough of the western waves
on the beach a soft, insistent "hush",
My hand was full; Bill held "four cards",
but you had a "routine flush".

To-day the sun is a blazing ball
in a silent, violent vault;
My hands are full, but it's now with care;
Bill's one with the maimed and halt;
And you are missing, believed to be dead
somewhere beyond Es Salt.

Palestine. "Ephraim Flaxstick."