vii
Upon a wild March morn
My husband went to France;
The day my child was born
His word came to advance.
'Twas on that very day
When my life should be crown'd,
As I lay in, he lay
Broken upon the ground.
For my loss there was gain,
But his precious blood
Was shed to earth like rain
Within the shatter'd wood.
Missing, the paper said,
But my heart said, Nay.
Missing! My man had been dead
Before he went away!
viii
It never throve from the first,
Mother, she seem'd to fear it;
But her words were the worst:
"Nancy, you'll never rear it."
Yet he took to the breast
And I knew the great end
Of women, to give their best,
To spend and to spend.
But his great eyes stared
Till he seemed all eyes,
And more than I dared
Meet looks so wise.