Out there, where'er they be,
Wasting with fever by some southern sea,
Braving the heights where mind and senses reel,
Death's icy fingers clutching at the wheel,
Finding at last, unsought, the Great Reward,
They lay their manhood on thine Altar, Lord!
For all who suffer and starve and die
That honour and truth may live—
Shatter our self-complacence, Lord,
And teach us how to give!
MOTHERHOOD, 1916
THE night comes down and the wind is chill,
(Are both my boys asleep?)
Daylight tinges the distant hill,
(Why is it I cannot sleep?)
A passing lad and a whistled tune,
(France is so far away!)
Roses bloom and the month is June,
(The heat is the worst, they say.)
The list was long in the morning's news,
(They are so young to die!)
Which strong heart will the bullet choose—
Where will his body lie?
Boys go clattering down the street
(Which will come back to me?)
I hear the tramp of the soldiers' feet,
(Dear God, that such things be!)
What will they buy with the blood of men?
(Hearts break, but they do not die.)
Victory, Honour,—and War again?
(Dead faces turned to the sky?)
93
