Leave me alone here, proudly, with my dead, Ye mothers of brave sons adventurous; He who once prayed: “If it be possible Let this cup pass,” will arbitrate for us. Your boy with iron nerves and careless smile Marched gaily by and dreamed of glory’s goal; Mine had blanched cheek, straight mouth and close-gripped hands And prayed that somehow he might save his soul. I do not grudge your ribbon or your cross, The price of these my soldier, too, has paid; I hug a prouder knowledge to my heart, The mother of the boy who was afraid!
He was a tender child with nerves so keen They doubled pain and magnified the sad; He hated cruelty and things obscene And in all high and holy things was glad. And so he gave what others could not give, The one supremest sacrifice he made, A thing your brave boy could not understand; He gave his all because he was afraid!
The sick man said: “I pray I shall not die Before this tumult which now rocks the earth Shall cease. I dread far journeyings to God Ere I have heard the final shots of war, And learned the outcome of this holocaust.”
Yet one night, while the guns still roared and flashed, His spirit left his body; left the earth Which he had loved in sad, disastrous days, And sped to heav’n amid the glittering stars And the white splendor of the quiet moon.
One instant--and a hundred years rushed by! And he, a new immortal, found his way Among the great celestial hills of God. Then suddenly one memory of earth Flashed like a meteor’s flame across his mind.
One instant--and another hundred years! And even the dream of that poor little place Which he had known was lost in greater spheres Through which he whirled; and old remembrances Were but as flecks of dust blown down the night; And nothing mattered, save that suns and moons Swung in the ether for unnumbered worlds High, high above the pebble of the earth.
From Mr. Kaufman’s book of poems, “The Hell Gate of Soissons.” T. Fisher Unwin, Publisher’s (all rights reserved), London, England. Special permission to reproduce in this book.
Hear the guns, hear the guns! High above the splutter-sputter Of the Maxim, and the stutter Of the rifles, hear them shrieking. See the searching shells come sneaking, Softly speaking, Slyly seeking, Thirsting, bursting, shrapnel-leaking Where the ranks are thickest--tearing Mighty gaps among the daring. Charging horse and rider stumble, And brigades fall in a jumble; Earthworks crumble, Standards tumble, And the driving bayonets fumble, But unsated, Still the hated Cannon thunder, unabated. Hear them rumble, Hear them grumble, Hear the old song of the guns! “Send your sons, Send your sons, All your near ones, All your dear ones; Give us food! Give us food! Give the strongest of your brood. Let us feed! Let us feed! On the bravest that you breed. Give us meat, Give us meat, Oh, the blood of Valor’s sweet!”