'MID the piteous heaps of dead <br />Goes one weary golden head <br />Tossing ever to and fro, <br />Calling loud and calling low. <br /> <br /> <br />Mother, mother, step so light, <br />Mother, lay your fingers white <br />On my forehead like a dew ! <br />Mother, mother, where are you? <br /> <br /> <br />Still so loud he makes his cry <br />That the dying cannot die; <br />All the writhing field's one groan <br />While he lies and cries alone. <br /> <br /> <br />But his mother's far away; <br />Cannot hear him cry and say: <br />Mother, I am dying, come! <br />Mother, I am lost from home! <br /> <br /> <br />Mary, Mother of all men, <br />Come and comfort him in pain. <br />Take his young head to the breast <br />Where your Child and God had rest. <br /> <br /> <br />Mary, Mary, step so light. <br />Mary, lay your fingers white <br />On his forehead! He shall dream <br />That his mother comforts him. <br /> <br /> <br />Mary, Mother, croon him o'er <br />Lullabies you sang before! <br />Mary, ease him, crooning low, <br />In the way that mothers know!<br /><br />Katharine Tynan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mid-the-piteous-heaps-of-dead/
