Roger Charles Noel Bellingham. Before Ypres, March 4th, 1915 <br /> <br /> <br />The Perfect Playmate, whither does he stray <br />That now no more his feet come up this way <br />That rang so blithe upon the nursery floor? <br />Wild games and laughter! Now the little son <br />Listens and longs, and his small world's undone. <br />The Perfect Playmate will return no more. <br /> <br />Who else made holidays of rainy days? <br />Who told such marvels by the firelight blaze? <br />King of misrule when Christmas frosts were hoar. <br />But now the black-gowned mother's tears will flow <br />Whether her little son be good or no. <br />The Perfect Playmate will return no more. <br /> <br />Who built the sands, dug deep, was never loth <br />Nor ever tired: was strong enough for both: <br />Home on his shoulders a small drowsy head bore; <br />Was ever smiling. The boy keeps apart <br />A gay young smiling father in his heart. <br />The Perfect Playmate will return no more! <br /> <br />No more, no more! Himself a boy he goes <br />Beyond the uttermost peaks, the eternal snows: <br />Light on his young brown head from an open door. <br />His youth unwithered, smiling all the way, <br />Into the land of youth, the Spring of Day. <br />The Perfect Playmate will return no more.<br /><br />Katharine Tynan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-perfect-playmate/
