For this is ever true:
"Our best we've yet to do."
A Father's Prayer
I sometimes wonder when I read the sorrow in his face
If I shall wear that look of care when time has marched apace?
My little boy is five years old and his is twenty-one;
My little boy is home with me; his boy to war has gone.
And I can laugh and dance with life, and I can gayly jest,
But heavy is the heart to-day that beats within his breast.