My mother sighs; I feel her hand upon my ruffled hair,
The while I know she thinks of one, of one who is not there....
And grandma, with her down-bent head, is dreaming of the day
When to the strains of “Dixie Land” her sweetheart marched away.
And brother stares into the dusk, with vivid eyes aflame,
And hears the stirring call to arms, to battle and to fame!
My little sister, half asleep, holds tight against her breast
A battered doll with china eyes that she herself has dressed;
And baby brother holds my hand, and thinks of cakes and toys
That grow on trees in some fair land for perfect little boys.
And auntie holds her head erect, and seems to dare the fates
With eyes that hold the glowing look of one who hopes and waits.
We often sit upon the porch on sultry August nights
When fireflies out upon the lawn are vague enchanted lights,
And no one speaks, for each one dreams and plans, perhaps, and strays,
A wanderer through years to come, a ghost through bygone days,
And as the stars far in the sky come shining softly through,
My heart and soul are all one prayer—one silver prayer for you.
THREE HILLS
EVERARD OWEN
From Mr. Owen’s book, “Three Hills and Other Poems.” Sidgwick & Jackson, Ltd., Publishers, London, England. Special permission to insert in this book.
THERE is a hill in England,
Green fields and a school I know,
Where the balls fly fast in summer,
And the whispering elm-trees grow,
A little hill, a dear hill,
And the playing fields below.
There is a hill in Flanders,
Heaped with a thousand slain,
Where the shells fly night and noontide
And the ghosts that died in vain—
A little hill, a hard hill,
To the souls that died in pain.
There is a hill in Jewry,
Three crosses pierce the sky,
On the midmost He is dying
To save all those who die—
A little hill, a kind hill
To souls in jeopardy.
MIKE DILLON, DOUGHBOY
LIEUT. JOHN PIERRE ROCHE
From Lieutenant Roche’s book of poems, “Rimes in Olive Drab.” Robert M. McBride & Company, Publishers, New York. Copyright, 1918. Special permission to insert in this book.