Page:Poet Lore, volume 28, 1917.djvu/497

Rh Who was he? A little soldier unknown, Still almost a child: So small is the coffin The banner so great! . . . Perhaps yonder in the village The mother awaiting Knows not that he is dead, Knows it not yet. And fondling her knitting needles on the doorstep She smiles : At Christmas he will come. . . . . . A little soldier unknown. It is vain to ask of his cradle, And his name and the time He lived. We know where and how He died. All who pass Recognize in him a brother And murmur: Farewell! . . . With the simple Sadness wrung from our hearts By the death of one who was born Of our mother. His name is in us all, In all things. His blood Was ours, and ours was in him. Fountain where surge forth Blood now returned to the pure Fountain where surge forth The powers of men. Name Divine: Motherland.