And haunting breath of sickness holds its own,
A homesick boy, sore wounded, suffering lies.
“Mother! Mother!” is his ceaseless cry.
“Come, mother, come, and see me ere I die!”
Where is war’s glory? Ask the trumpet’s blare,
The marching columns run to bitter strife;
Ask of the raw recruit who knows as yet
Naught of its horrors, naught of its loss of life;
Ask not the mother; weeping for her son,
She knows the heart-aches following victories won.