But now—tonight—
No, no; it's right;
I never had a righter thing
To bear. And men must fling
Themselves away in the grieving sight
Of right.
A handsome boy—but I, who knew
His spirit—well, they cannot mar
The cleanness of a star
That'll shine to me, always and true,
Who knew.
I've given him.
Yes; and had I more,
I'd give them too—for there's a love
That asking, asks above
The human measure of our store—
And more.
Yes; it hurts!
Here in the dark, alone—
No one to see my wet old eyes—
I'll watch the morning rise—
And only God shall hear my groan
Alone.
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.
Emory Pottle
IN FLANDERS FIELDS[H]
[H] From "In Flanders Fields," by Lieutenant-Colonel John McCrae, courtesy of G. P. Putnam's Sons, publishers.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amidst the guns below.