The reverent moonlight lays a veil
On hair grown silver 'neath her ray
And waits . . . Outside, the moaning trees
Are hung like harps in branching night,
Swept by the fingers of the breeze.
The wind, the Moon, and Memory . . .
Slow tears, and grief, and Life and Death . . .
'Mid that great company, asleep
The children lie in marble peace,
Unknowing who the vigil keep.
And always down the quiet road
A soundless tramp of ghostly feet . . .
Remembered, half-dreamt battle cry . . .
While past the house, beneath the trees
Dim regiments of shades march by.
THE MOTHER
HER boys are not shut out. They come
Homing like pigeons to her door,
Sure of her tender welcome home,
As many a time before.
Their bed is made so smooth and sweet,
The fire is lit—the table spread;
She has poured water for their feet,
That they be comforted.
As with a fluttering of wings
They are come home, come home to stay;
With all the bitter dreadful things
Forgot, clean washed away.
They are so glad to stay, so glad
They nestle to her gown's soft flow,
As in the loving times they had,
Long ago, long ago.
