It floats from learning's halls,
And within the busy mart,
Where its crowded stars
Form growing bars
To rejoice the drooping heart.
Each star stands for a life,
To the nation gladly given,
For an answered prayer
To those "over there,"
Though a mother's heart be riven.
We pass with kindling eye
Beneath your colors true;
A nation's love,
A nation's hope
Are bound in the heart of you!
Josephine M. Fabricant
I HAVE A SON[G]
[G] Reprinted from the Saturday Evening Post, Philadelphia. Copyrighted 1917 by the Curtis Publishing Company, Philadelphia.
I have a son who goes to France
Tomorrow.
I have clasped his hand—
Most men will understand—
And wished him, smiling, lucky chance in France.
My son!
At last the house is still—
Just the dog and I in the garden—dark—
Stars and my pipe's red spark—
The house his young heart used to fill
Is still.
He said one day, "I've got to go
To France—Dad, you know how I feel!"
I knew. Like sun and steel
And morning. "Yes," I said, "I know
You'll go."
I'd waited just to hear him speak
Like that.
God, what if I had had
Another sort of lad,
Something too soft and meek and weak
To speak!
And yet!
He could not guess the blow
He'd struck.
Why, he's my only son!
And we had just begun
To be dear friends. But I dared not show
The blow.