POETRY.
ANY SOLDIER SON TO HIS MOTHER.
Jr I am taken from this patchwork life
By some swift outthrust of an unseen arm— The death that strikes my comrades day and night— I pray you make of it no cause of tears,
I beg you grieve not for me overmuch.
And for your comfort I would pen this thought s
The joy you had of me in childhood's days When in your arms I played or cried or prayed (Those soft warm arms! Can you or I forget?) Will still remain with you when I am gone.
It is so real now, that memory; Not death itself can rob you of your child.
The boy I was, the man I grew to lie,
Despite the mother's tender hopes and fears, How distant, how detached and cold they seem.
And so, sweet Mother, here I stand to meet My fate, this night and any night; but still Your child, imperishable whilst you breathe;
As in the cradle, so until the end.
N. G. H.
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