SHRUNKEN little bodies, pallid baby faces, <br />Eyes of staring terror, innocence defiled, <br />Tiny bones that strew the sand of silent places, <br />— This upon our own star where Jesus was a child. <br />Broken buds of April, is there any garden <br />Where they yet may blossom, comforted of sun, <br />While their sad Creator bows to ask their pardon <br />For the life He gave them, life and death in one? <br />Spared by steel and hunger, still shall horror blazon <br />Those white and tender spirits with anguish unforgot; <br />Half a century hence the haggard look shall gaze on <br />The outrage of a mother, shall see a grandsire shot. <br />Man who wings the azure, lassoes the hoof sparkling, <br />Fire-maned steeds of glory and binds them to his car, <br />Cannot man whose searchlight leaves no horizon darkling <br />Safeguard little children upon our golden star?<br /><br />Katharine Lee Bates<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/children-of-the-war/
