He, born of my girlhood, is dead, while my life is yet young in my heart <br />Ere the breasts where his baby lips fed have forgotten their softness, we part. <br />We part. He was mine, he was here, though he travelled by land and by sea, <br />My son who could trample on fear, my babe who was moulded in me. <br />As I sat in the darkness, it seemed I could still feel his touch on my head; <br />He came in the night as I dreamed, and he knelt at the side of my bed; <br />He murmured the words I had taught when his lips were the lips of a child, <br />Ere the strength of his arm had been bought and the love that upheld him defiled; <br />Then my faltering spirit grew bold, and my heart had forgotten its drouth, <br />And I crooned little songs as of old, till I woke at his kiss on my mouth. <br />Now waking and sleeping are pain. Nevermore will he kiss, nevermore <br />Shall I hear his low whistle again at the gate, or his step on the floor, <br />For to-night he was here while I slept, and this is the end of it all. <br />Now that welter of darkness has swept us apart, can he come if I call? <br />Can he come, little chap with the eyes that brought light out of heaven to earth? <br />Can he come, though the soul of me cries for the joy that I bought by his birth? <br />I can see but the horror that bids the heart of the mother despair, <br />The vision that burns on my lids, the face that will always be there, <br />For he holds out his hands to me, red, and his eyes tell the truth as he stands. <br />He is dead. He is dead. He is dead. He is dead, with the blood on his hands.<br /><br />John Le Gay Brereton<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-496/
