Little War Mothers
WHEN you look at his picture and your eyes
Are dimmed and mighty wet,
And it seems as though your trembling hands
Could reach and touch him yet:
When you faintly call and he answers not
Your supplicating prayer,
Remember his last thought was You:
I know—for I was there.
When the day is done and the hearth-fire glows,
And you slowly knit and knit;
And your furtive eyes from the embers rise
To where he used to sit:
And you feel he never can slip up
And kiss you unaware,
Remember his last word was You:
I know—for I was there.
When your dear brave heart is breaking—
And life is ‘reft of joy;
And only the spark of memory—
The face of a boy—your boy:
May the good God hover over you,
And touch your silvered hair,
And tell you what I’ve tried to tell:
He knows—for He was there.
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