Long the boy with knit brows wondered o’er that friending of the foeman;
Long the man with shut lips pondered; powerless he to tell the cause
Why the brother in his bosom that desired the death of no man,
In the crash of battle wakened, snapped the bonds of hate like straws.
While he mused, his toddling maiden drew the daisies to a posy;
Mild the bells of Sunday morning rang across the churchyard sod;
And helped on by tender hands, with sturdy feet all bare and rosy,
Climbed his babe to mother’s breast, as climbs the slow world up to God.
POVERTY ROW
Brave old neighbours in Poverty Row,