MOTHER, the poplars cross the moon; <br />The road runs on, so white and far, <br />We shall not reach the city soon: <br />Oh, tell me where we are!” <br /> <br />“Have patience, patience, little son, <br />And we shall find the way again: <br />(God show me the untraveled one! <br />God give me rest from men!)” <br /> <br />“Mother, you did not tell me why <br />You hurried so to come away. <br />I saw big soldiers riding by; <br />I should have liked to stay.” <br /> <br />“Hush, little man, and I will sing <br />Just like a soldier, if I can— <br />They have a song for everything. <br />Listen, my little man! <br /> <br />“This is the soldiers’ marching song: <br />We’ll play this is the village street—” <br />“Yes, but this road is very long, <br />And stones have hurt my feet.” <br /> <br />“Nay, little pilgrim, up with you! <br />And yonder field shall be the town. <br />I’ll show you how the soldiers do <br />Who travel up and down. <br /> <br />“They march and sing and march again, <br />Not minding all the stones and dust: <br />They go, (God grant me rest from men!) <br />Forward, because they must.” <br /> <br />Mother, I want to go to sleep.” <br />“No, darling! Here is bread to eat! <br />(O God, if thou couldst let me weep, <br />Or heal my broken feet!)”<br /><br />Grace Hazard Conkling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-refugees-2/
