 | War poems |  |
I
I have a widow'd mother, to whom I cleave
With a devouring passion. My sole care
And joy she is. “What money I can spare”
Is hers—when she can get it. If I leave
Upon your urgent errand she will grieve
(Poor soul), and find no comfort anywhere—
Beauty draws some men by a single hair;
But me—I'm all for mother, please believe.
With a devouring passion. My sole care
And joy she is. “What money I can spare”
Is hers—when she can get it. If I leave
Upon your urgent errand she will grieve
(Poor soul), and find no comfort anywhere—
Beauty draws some men by a single hair;
But me—I'm all for mother, please believe.
A boy's best friend's his mother without a doubt
And a most excellent mother have I got:
'Tis true, the other day, she said, “You go—
I'll struggle through!” I murmured, “Certainly not!”—
Sharp like, and firm. . . . Dear heart, she'll never know
How much I've loved her—since the war broke out!
And a most excellent mother have I got:
'Tis true, the other day, she said, “You go—
I'll struggle through!” I murmured, “Certainly not!”—
Sharp like, and firm. . . . Dear heart, she'll never know
How much I've loved her—since the war broke out!
| War poems | |