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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508374" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Her Letter</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;I'm taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me;<br>My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow,<br>And even with my glasses on I'm troubled sore to see. . . .<br>You'd little know your mother, boy; you'd little, little know.<br>You mind how brisk and bright I was, how straight and trim and smart;<br>'Tis weariful I am the now, and bent and frail and grey.<br>I'm waiting at the road's end, lad; and all that's in my heart,<br>Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Oh well I mind the sorry day you crossed the gurly sea;<br>'Twas like the heart was torn from me, a waeful wife was I.<br>You said that you'd be home again in two years, maybe three;<br>But nigh a score of years have gone, and still the years go by.<br>I know it's cruel hard for you, you've bairnies of your own;<br>I know the siller's hard to win, and folks have used you ill:<br>But oh, think of your mother, lad, that's waiting by her lone!<br>And even if you canna come -- just write and say you will.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0">&quot;Aye, even though there's little hope, just promise that you'll try.<br>It's weary, weary waiting, lad; just say you'll come next year.<br>I'm thinking there will be no `next'; I'm thinking soon I'll lie<br>With all the ones I've laid away . . . but oh, the hope will cheer!<br>You know you're all that's left to me, and we are seas apart;<br>But if you'll only say you'll come, then will I hope and pray.<br>I'm waiting by the grave-side, lad; and all that's in my heart<br>Is just to see my boy again before I'm called away.&quot;</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Robert+William+Service">Robert William Service</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=508374" data-title="Her Letter de Robert William Service" data-description="&quot;I'm taking pen in hand this night, and hard it is for me;
My poor old fingers tremble so, my hand is stiff and slow,
And even with my glasses on I'm troubled sore to see. . . .
You'd little know your mother, boy; you'd little, little know.
Y..."></div>
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