IT is not much: one child the less to sing
Her passage through the hours;
One girl the less to greet the coming spring.
And pluck the summer's flow'rs.
It is not much: one little coffin made
And one more little shroud.
One hush the more within the room's dark shade.
One less word said aloud.
It is not much: one prayer the less to God,
From Whom all prayers have birth.
One scar the more across the fresh green sod.
One shovel more of earth.
It is not much: yet could it have been more?
God thinks the same of such.
As of the proudest hero killed in war:—
Who says it is not much?
France, July, 1917.
