And I did weep to think that these had died,
That I should hold no more their clasping hands,
Which now are blent with dust of foreign lands;
"But mourn not us; we are content," they cried;
"Rejoicing we went forth, and loud in song,
Ready to suffer all things, or to die
If Fate so willed it; but our hopes were high;
We went forth steadfast to our will and strong.
"And some of us return not, but remain
In close-dug graves o'ergrown with simple flowers,
Tended by gentle winds, washed with soft showers,
Lulled on earth's bosom to forget our pain.
"But comfort these, and on their foreheads lay
Cool hands of consolation, that they sleep,
And so forget the cause for which they weep
In happy dreamlessness until the day."
Then I saw many mothers grieving sore,
With sad, bowed heads, hot eyes devoid of tears;
Some young, unblemished, some grown grey with years,
Lone mothers mourning for the sons they bore.
But they were bravely desolate; to speak
Soft words of comfort, hopeful of relief
Seemed but an insult to their quiet grief;
In face of such a sorrow words are weak.
