There's a young girl who stands laughing,
For she thinks a war is grand,
And it's fine to see the lads pass,
And it's fine to hear the band.
So it's beat, drums, beat,
To the fall of many feet;
And it's blow, trumpets, blow,
God go with you where you go!
WITH folded hands beside the fire
Silent she muses. Scarlet flames
Leap from the ashes, then, like bloom
Of briefest hour, faint and fade,
While secret, darker, grows the room.
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Dream-shielded from the changeful world
Upstairs the children lie asleep.
The gliding moonlight enters in,
Unearthly, reminiscent, still,
And touching sleeping brow and chin—
With magic art of light and shade
A strangeness carves upon their youth.
The moonbeans, lighter than a breath
Dream-stirred, have sculptured deep and pale
A less than life, a more than death.
Yet not alone the moonlight there,
For she who watched the ebbing fire
Leans breathlessly above the bed . . .
Her yearning eyes explore each face
To find once more her blessèd dead.