Words That Burn

The Mother, by May Herschel-Clarke (1850-1950)

If you should die, think only this of me

In that still quietness where is space for thought,

Where parting, loss and bloodshed shall not be,

And men may rest themselves and dream of nought:

That in some place a mystic mile away

One whom you loved has drained the bitter cup

Till there is nought to drink; has faced the day

Once more, and now, has raised the standard up.

And think, my son, with eyes grown clear and dry

She lives as though for ever in your sight,

Loving the things you loved, with heart aglow

For country, honour, truth, traditions high,

–Proud that you paid their price. (And if some night

Her heart should break–well, lad, you will not know.)

 

(see previous entry)