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THE WOUNDED
Perchance he sought no blissful shore,
No place with hosts of myriad blest,
But just to lay, a child once more,
His tired head on his mother's breast.
Ah, well, to-day all dreams come true
For those closed eyes where riddles cease;
He leaves the warring world he knew,
And ratifies, ere we, his peace.
God rest him, then . . . but we must turn
To face the same sad tasks again—
To tend new convoys, and discern
The same dream in the eyes of pain.
Alberta Vickridge, V.A.D.
