"It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers. <br /> And he said unto his father, My head, my head. And he said to a lad, <br /> Carry him to his mother. And . . . he sat on her knees till noon, <br /> and then died. And she went up, and laid him on the bed. . . . <br /> And shut the door upon him and went out." <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />Immortal story that no mother's heart <br /> Ev'n yet can read, nor feel the biting pain <br />That rent her soul! Immortal not by art <br /> Which makes a long past sorrow sting again <br /> <br />Like grief of yesterday: but since it said <br /> In simplest word the truth which all may see, <br />Where any mother sobs above her dead <br /> And plays anew the silent tragedy.<br /><br />John McCrae<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-oldest-drama/
