Page:Marching Men - War Verses (1917).pdf/30



HILDREN, children, yet unborn, Hold your lives in holy trust, Yours the blossom, theirs the thorn, Yours the sweetness, theirs the dust; That your eyes might see the light, That love fold you safe and warm, Fared they to a dawnless night, Bowed they to a bitter storm. . ..

I can see you at your play In the dewy fields of morn, Dancing through the scented hay, And the sheaves of yellow corn; There are roses on your cheek, There is laughter in your eyes As you romp at hide-and-seek Where the lark and throstle rise With your merry ways and wise, Little children yet unborn.