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Rh To mother them! And then it all

Is blurred by the insistent tears!

THE UNKNOWN

BY E. O. LAUGHLIN

not understand...

They bring so many, many flowers to me—

Rainbows of roses, wreaths from every land;

And hosts of solemn strangers come to see

My tomb here on these quiet, wooded heights.

My tomb here seems to be

One of the sights.

The low-voiced men, who speak

Of me quite fondly, call me The Unknown:

But now and then at dusk, Madonna-meek,

Bent, mournful mothers come to me alone

And whisper down—the flowers and grasses through—

Such names as "Jim" and "John"...

I wish I knew.

And once my sweetheart came.

She did not—nay, of course she could not—know,

But thought of me, and crooned to me the name

She called me by—how many years ago?