The storm beats loud, and you are far away,
The night is wild,
On distant fields of battle breaks the day,
My little child?
I sought to shield you from the least of ills
In bygone years,
I soothed with dreams of manhood’s far-off hills
Your baby fears,
But could not save you from the shock of strife;
With radiant eyes
You seized the sword and in the path of Life
You sought your prize.
The tempests rage, but you are fast asleep;
Though winds be wild
They cannot break your endless slumbers deep,
My little child.
PERHAPS——
(To R.A.L. Died of Wounds in France, December 23rd, 1915)
Perhaps some day the sun will shine again,
And I shall see that still the skies are blue,
And feel once more I do not live in vain,
Although bereft of You.
Perhaps the golden meadows at my feet
Will make the sunny hours of Spring seem gay,
And I shall find the white May blossoms sweet,
Though You have passed away.
Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright,
And crimson roses once again be fair,
And autumn harvest fields a rich delight,
Although You are not there.
Perhaps some day I shall not shrink in pain
To see the passing of the dying year,
And listen to the Christmas songs again,
Although You cannot hear.