Page:Poetry, a magazine of verse, Volume 7 (October 1915-March 1916).djvu/102

POETRY: A Magazine of Verse

"Mother, the poplars cross the moon:
 * The road runs on, so white and far,

We shall not reach the city soon:
 * Oh, tell me where we are!"

"Have patience, patience, little son,
 * And we shall find the way again:

(God show me the untraveled one!
 * God give me rest from men!)"

"Mother, you did not tell me why
 * You hurried so to come away.

I saw big soldiers riding by;
 * I should have liked to stay."

"Hush, little man, and I will sing
 * Just like a soldier, if I can—

They have a song for everything.
 * Listen, my little man!

"This is the soldiers' marching song:
 * We'll play this is the village street—"

"Yes, but this road is very long,
 * And stones have hurt my feet."