(Hopes and prayers she cherished bravely, seeking strength to hide her fear),
Boyhood’s dreams and idle memories—things that never really mattered—
Lying buried where he’s buried ’neath the stars all shining clear.
There’s a young wife sorrow-stricken in her bitter first conception
Of that brief conclusive message, harsh fulfilment of her dread;
There are tiny lips repeating, with their childish imperception,
Simple words that bring her mem’ries from the boundaries of the dead.
Could the Turk have seen this picture when his trigger-finger rounded,
Would his sights have blurred a little had he heard that mother’s prayer?
Could he know some things that she knew, might his hate have been confounded?