The Great War

from The Holy War, an electronic edition


To Leucha Mary Warner

He is "Missing," and forlorn

Drag her days in grief and pain.

Every morn a hope is born,

Only to be lost again.

"Missing!" Almost better "Killed."

The long anguish breaks her heart

That's a dead thing, numbed and chilled

Till the live fear bids it start.

Now a knocking at the door,

Now a shouting in the street,

Makes her poor heart run before,

The most bitter news to meet.

"Missing!" It may be he dies

'Mid his foes and comfortless.

When sleep shuts her heavy eyes,

Still she seeks him in distress.

Dear, he is not missing, not lost.

Rest your heart as on a bed.

For the One who loves him most

Knows where he has laid his head.

He accounted of all worth,

This beloved bought with a price,

Watchers look East, South, and North

From the heights of Paradise

Lest that he take any ill.

Still the Mighty Lover goes,

Seeks the beloved o'er many a hill.

Be at rest, dear child! He knows!