A wounded soldier is sent home to the woman waiting for him. At first the official letter makes her uneasy, but then he is there—alive, his face and hands not visibly harmed—and she has to force herself to ask what is wrong. Her relief and the dread of losing him again sit tightly together throughout. He tells her a bullet passed through his chest: bad enough to need medicine, rest, and her care for a week, but not bad enough to keep him from going back. Her relief is real, yet the word “lucky” sits strangely beside the thought of his returning to the war. Her eyes ask how he can bear a second trial; his eyes quietly ask her not to ask. The closing line states the bargain plainly: they have given him back to her, but not to keep. The mood is quiet, intimate, and shadowed by grief that can never quite be spoken.
Not to Keep — Summary
They sent him back to her. The letter came Saying.... And she could have him. And before She could be sure there was no hidden ill Under the formal writing, he was in her sight, Living. They gave him back to her alive-- How else? They are not known to send the dead-- And not disfigured visibly. His face? His hands? She had to look, to ask, ‘What is it, dear?’ And she had given all And still she had all--they had--they the lucky! Wasn’t she glad now? Everything seemed won, And all the rest for them permissible ease. She had to ask, ‘What was it, dear?’
‘Enough, Yet not enough. A bullet through and through, High in the breast. Nothing but what good care And medicine and rest, and you a week, Can cure me of to go again.’ The same Grim giving to do over for them both. She dared no more than ask him with her eyes How was it with him for a second trial. And with his eyes he asked her not to ask. They had given him back to her, but not to keep.