Page:Flower of youth, poems in war time, Tynan, 1915.djvu/41

Rh 'MID THE PITEOUS HEAPS OF DEAD

the piteous heaps of dead

Goes one weary golden head

Tossing ever to and fro,

Calling loud and calling low.

Mother, mother, step so light,

Mother, lay your fingers white

On my forehead like a dew!

Mother, mother, where are you?

Still so loud he makes his cry

That the dying cannot die;

All the writhing field's one groan

While he lies and cries alone.

But his mother's far away;

Cannot hear him cry and say:

Mother, I am dying, come!

Mother, I am lost from home!