The Great War

from Herb o' Grace, an electronic edition


For the first time since he was born

Her son, her rose without a thorn,

They are at variance, they who were

Always such closest friends and dear.

Another face is in his dreams

Under the sunbeams and moonbeams.

In his changed glances she discovers

Something, some chill between two lovers --

Something of fear, and oh, it hurts!

But shall not Love have its deserts

And win forgiveness, though she still

Sets her poor will against his will?

For all day long the battle calls,

And in the quiet evenfalls,

And in the night which else is dumb,

He hears the bugle and the drum.

And the wild longing in him stirs

For the fierce battle. He's not hers,

But she her hidden way will keep,

Striving against him even in sleep,

Praying against him loud and low,

"Pity me, so he may not go!"

Calling on Heaven that it conspire

Against him and his heart's desire.

God pity mothers when their sons

Grow cold, that were their little ones!