Page:A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919.djvu/366

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Perchance he sought no blissful shore,

No place with hosts of myriad blest,

But just to lay, a child once more,

His tired head on his mother's breast.

Ah, well, to-day all dreams come true

For those closed eyes where riddles cease;

He leaves the warring world he knew,

And ratifies, ere we, his peace.

God rest him, then. . . but we must turn

To face the same sad tasks again—

To tend new convoys, and discern

The same dream in the eyes of pain. Alberta Vickridge, V.A.D.