The Poor Old Soul plods down the street, Contented, and forgetting How Youth was wild, and Spring was wild And how her life is setting; And you lean out to watch her there, And pity, nor remember, That Youth is hard, and Life is hard, And quiet is December.
A Mother to the War-Makers
This is my son that you have taken,
Guard lest your gold-vault walls be shaken,
Never again to speak or waken.
This, that I gave my life to make,
This you have bidden the vultures break—
Dead for your selfish quarrel’s sake!
This that I built all of my years,
Made with my strength and love and tears,
Dead for pride of your shining spears!
Just for your playthings bought and sold
You have crushed to a heap of mold
Youth and life worth a whole world’s gold—
This was my son, that you have taken,
Guard lest your gold-vault walls be shaken—
This—that shall never speak or waken!