I, Too
I saw fond lovers in that glow
That oft-times fades away too soon:
I saw and said, 'Their joy I know-
I, too, have had my honeymoon.'
A young expectant mother's gaze
Held earth and heaven within its scope:
My thoughts went back to holy days-
I said, 'I, too, have known that hope.'
I saw a stricken mother swayed
By sorrow's storm, like wind-blown grass:
I said, 'I, too, dismayed
Have seen the little white hearse pass.'
I saw a matron rich with years
Walk radiantly beside her mate:
I blessed them, and said through my tears,
'I, too, have known that high estate.'
I saw a woman swathed in black
So blind with grief she could not see:
I said, 'Not far need I look back-
I, too, have known Gethsemane.'
I saw a face so full of light,
It seemed with all God's truths to shine:
I said, 'I, too, have found my sight,
I, too, have touched the Fact Divine.'
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Related quotes
Our Saviour’s Boyhood
With what a flood of wondrous thoughts
Each Christian breast must swell
When, wandering back through ages past,
With simple faith they dwell
On quiet Nazareth’s sacred sod,
Where the Child Saviour’s footsteps trod.
Awe-struck we picture to ourselves
That brow serene and fair,
That gentle face, the long rich curls
Of wavy golden hair,
And those deep wondrous, star-like eyes,
Holy and calm as midnight skies.
We see Him in the work-shop shed
With Joseph, wise and good,
Obedient to His guardian’s word,
Docile and meek of mood;
The Mighty Lord of Heaven and Earth
Toiling like one of lowly birth.
Or else, with His young Mother fair—
That sinless, spotless one,
Who watched with fond and reverent care,
Her high and glorious Son,
Knowing a matron’s joy and pride,
And yet a Virgin pure beside.
All marvelled at the strange, shy grace
Of Mary’s gentle Son;
Young mothers envied her the Boy
Who love from all hearts won;
And, gazing on that face so mild,
Prayed low to Heaven for such a child.
Though with the boys of Nazareth
He never joined in mirth,
Yet young and old felt strangely drawn
Towards His modest worth;
E’en though that quiet, wondrous Child,
Had never laughed nor even smiled.
For even then prophetic rose
Before His spirit’s gaze
The cruel Cross, the griefs reserved
For manhood’s coming days,
And, worse than all, the countless host
That, spite His pangs, might yet be lost.
Silent and calm, He held His way
From morn till evening still;
His thoughts intent on working out
His Mighty Father’s will;
While Heaven bent in ecstasy,
O’er the Boy-God of Galilee.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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More Than A Mother
More Than a Mother by Kenny Davis
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re a better part of my heart
Through all the tears, I look to you
For me, that’s where the joy starts
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re more like a guiding light
There in the mists of the darkness
I am drawn to you, burning so bright
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re like the sunlight after the rain
A comfort after the troubles
Removing all of my pain
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re my calm before the storm
Keeping me grounded, keeping me focused
So my faith may take its form
You’re more than a mother to me
My personal North Star
Finding myself following your glistening glow
For times, when I shall stray afar
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re like the first day of spring
Each smile from you, a simple ray of sunshine
Angels and birds would sing
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re my absolute best friend
Of all the times we have spent and shared
I hope and pray they never end
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re truly one of a kind
I am truly blessed to have a mother like you
I am glad to say you’re mine
© May 2010 K. Davis
poem by Kenneth Davis
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The Touch Of Your Hand
On the day that you were born
I touched your hand so chubby and warm.
I touched your hand when you were one
and helped you walk my beautiful son.
I held your hand when you were two.
We ran, your favorite thing to do.
I held your hand when you were three
as you climbed on my lap and smiled at me.
I touched your hand when you were four
as the ocean touched our toes at the shore.
I touched your hand when you were five
walking you to school but when we'd arrive
I felt the tug of your hand from mine
and I knew that we had crossed a line.
I looked at you and released your hand
and said'it's okay I understand.'
As I walked back home I cried some tears
thinking of all our hand holding years.
Holding your hand became sporadic now,
when you were feverish or I felt your brow.
I held your hand a few times as a teen
but always alone so it wouldn't be seen.
I held your hand after you said, 'I do.'
We danced together just me and you.
After some years went by my son
you held the hand of your little one.
And so the times of your life turn around
and now that my hand is old I've found
you take my hand and help me walk
and as you do we intimately talk.
And it takes me back to that bright early morn
when I held your hand so chubby and warm.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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My Mother(aday)
Blessed is your face
Blessed is your name
My beloved
Blessed is your smile
Which makes my soul want to fly
My beloved
All the nights
And all the times
That you cared for me
But I never realised it
And now it’s too late
I miss you
Now I’m alone filled with so much shame
For all the years I caused you pain
If only I could sleep in your arms again
Mother I’m lost without you
You were the sun that brightened my day
Now who’s going to wipe my tears away
If only I knew what I know today
Mother I’m lost without you
Mother... Mother... O my mother
How I long to see O mother
“Your mother, Your mother, Your mother”
Is the saying of our Prophet(s.a.w)
In my heart, in my dreams
You are always with me mother
You went and left me
O light of my eyes
O comfort of my nights
You went and left me
Who, other than you, will embrace me?
Who, other than you, will cover me?
Who, other than you, will guard over me?
Your pardon mother, I miss you
Nov,3rd,2009
poem by Lateef Jan Afridi Ab.latif jan
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Christmas Hymn
O CHRIST, born on the holy day,
I have no gift to give my King;
No flowers grow by my weary way;
I have no birthday song to sing.
How can I sing Thy name and praise,
Who never saw Thy face divine;
Who walk in darkness all my days,
And see no Eastern stars a-shine?
Yet, when their Christmas gifts they bring,
How can I leave Thy praise unsung?
How stay from homage to the King,
And hold a silent, grudging tongue?
Lord, I found many a song to sing,
And many a humble hymn of praise
For Thy great Miracle of Spring,
The wonder of the waxing days.
When I beheld Thy days and years,
Did I not sing Thy pleasant earth?
The moons of love, the years of tears,
The mysteries of death and birth?
Have I not sung with all my soul
While soul and song were mine to yield,
Thy lightning crown, Thy cloud-control,
The dewy clover of Thy field?
Have I not loved Thy birds and beasts,
Thy streams and woods, Thy sun and shade;
Have I not made me holy feasts
Of all the beauty Thou hast made?
What though my tear-tired eyes, alas!
Won never grace Thy face to see?
I heard Thy footstep on the grass,
Thy voice in every wind-blown tree.
No music now I make or win,
Yet, Lord, remember I have been
The lover of Thy world, wherein
I found nought common or unclean.
Grown old and blind, I sing no more,
Thy saints in heaven sing sweet and strong,
Yet take the songs I made of yore
For echoes to Thy birthday song.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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At Last
O mother, open the window wide
And let the daylight in;
The hills grow darker to my sight
And thoughts begin to swim.
And mother dear, take my young son,
(Since I was born of thee)
And care for all his little ways
And nurse him on thy knee.
And mother, wash my pale pale hands
And then bind up my feet;
My body may no longer rest
Out of its winding sheet.
And mother dear, take a sapling twig
And green grass newly mown,
And lay them on my empty bed
That my sorrow be not known.
And mother, find three berries red
And pluck them from the stalk,
And burn them at the first cockcrow
That my spirit may not walk.
And mother dear, break a willow wand,
And if the sap be even,
Then save it for sweet Robert’s sake
And he’ll know my soul’s in heaven.
And mother, when the big tears fall,
(And fall, God knows, they may)
Tell him I died of my great love
And my dying heart was gay.
And mother dear, when the sun has set
And the pale kirk grass waves,
Then carry me through the dim twilight
And hide me among the graves.
poem by Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal
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Black Throated Wind
Youre bringing me down, Im running aground,
Blind in the lights of the interstate cars,
Passing me by, the busses and the semis,
Plugging like stones from a slingshot from mars.
But Im here on the road, bound to the load,
That I picked up in ten thousand cafes and bars.
Alone with the rush of the drivers that wont pick me up,
The highway, the moon, and clouds and the stars.
Black throated wind, keeps on pourin in,
With its words of a life where nothing is new,
Ah, mother american night, I pass from the light,
Ah, Im drownin in you.
I left st. louie, city of blues,
In the midst of a storm Id rather forget.
I tried to pretend it came to an end,
Cause you werent the women I once thought Id met.
But I cant deny, times have gone by,
Well I never had doubts or thoughts of regret,
And I was a man when all this began,
Who wouldnt think twice about being there yet.
Black throated wind, whisper in sin,
And speaking on life that passes like dew.
Its forced me to see youve done better by me,
Better by me that Ive done by you.
Now whats to be found by racing around,
You carry your pain wherever you go,
Full of blues, and tryin to lose,
You aint gonna learn what you dont wanna know.
So I give you my eyes and all of their lies,
Please help them to learn as well as to see.
Capture a glance, and make it dance,
But looking at you is looking at me.
Black throated wind, keeps on pourin in,
With its words of a life that could almost be true,
Ah, mother american night, here comes a light.
Im turning around, thats what Im gonna do.
Going back home thats what Im gonna do.
Im turning around, thats what Im gonna do.
Going back home thats what Im gonna do.
Cause youve done better by me than Ive done by you,
Im drowning in you.
song performed by by Grateful Dead
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Back In Black (live 1981)
Back in black
I hit the sack
I've been too long I'm glad to be back [I bet you know I'm...]
Yes, I'm let loose
From the noose
That's kept me hanging about
I've been looking at the sky
'Cause it's gettin' me high
Forget the hearse 'cause I never die
I got nine lives
Cat's eyes
Abusin' every one of them and running wild
CHORUS:
'Cause I'm back
Yes, I'm back
Well, I'm back
Yes, I'm back
Well, I'm back, back
(Well) I'm back in black
Yes, I'm back in black
Back in the back
Of a Cadillac
Number one with a bullet, I'm a power pack
Yes, I'm in a bang
With a gang
They've got to catch me if they want me to hang
Cause I'm back on the track
And I'm beatin' the flack
Nobody's gonna get me on another rap
So look at me now
I'm just makin' my play
Don't try to push your luck, just get out of my way
CHORUS
Well, I'm back, Yes I'm back
Well, I'm back, Yes I'm back
Well, I'm back, back
Well I'm back in black
Yes I'm back in black
hooo yeah
Ohh yeah
Yes I am
Oooh yeah, yeah Oh yeah
Back in now
Well I'm back, I'm back
Back, I'm back
Back, I'm back
Back, I'm back
Back, I'm back
Back
Back in black
Yes I'm back in black
Out of the sight
song performed by by AC-DC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Little White Hearse
Somebody’s baby was buried to-day –
The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back,
And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay
As I paused on the sidewalk while it crossed on its way,
And a shadow seemed drawn o’er the sun’s golden track.
Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest,
White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold,
And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast,
And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed
With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.
Somebody saw it go out of her sight,
Under the coffin lid – out through the door;
Somebody finds only darkness and blight
All through the glory of summer-sun light;
Somebody’s baby will waken no more.
Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep:
I know not her name, but I echo her cry,
For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep,
The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep
In the little white hearse that went rumbling by.
I know not her name, but her sorrow I know;
While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more,
And back to my heart surged that river of woe
That but in the breast of a mother can flow;
For the little white hearse has been, too, at my door.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Back In Black
Back in black
I hit the sack
Ive been too long Im glad to be back [i bet you know im...]
Yes, Im let loose
From the noose
Thats kept me hanging about
Ive been looking at the sky
cause its gettin me high
Forget the hearse cause I never die
I got nine lives
Cats eyes
Abusin every one of them and running wild
Chorus:
cause Im back
Yes, Im back
Well, Im back
Yes, Im back
Well, Im back, back
(well) Im back in black
Yes, Im back in black
Back in the back
Of a cadillac
Number one with a bullet, Im a power pack
Yes, Im in a bang
With a gang
Theyve got to catch me if they want me to hang
Cause Im back on the track
And Im beatin the flack
Nobodys gonna get me on another rap
So look at me now
Im just makin my play
Dont try to push your luck, just get out of my way
Chorus
Well, Im back, yes Im back
Well, Im back, yes Im back
Well, Im back, back
Well Im back in black
Yes Im back in black
Hooo yeah
Ohh yeah
Yes I am
Oooh yeah, yeah oh yeah
Back in now
Well Im back, Im back
Back, Im back
Back, Im back
Back, Im back
Back, Im back
Back
Back in black
Yes Im back in black
Out of the sight
song performed by by AC-DC
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Grief-Stricken Eyes
To many
My tears are nothing more
Than a stain
An anoyance
To their daily lives
It makes no difference
How hard I weep
No one is willing
To help a grief-stricken face
I walk in a cloud of darkness
Shrouded by a shadow
Of death
Each step I take
Takes me one step closer
To the edge
The brim
Which will allow me
To face my death
To honour the pledge
That no one cares
So why should I
Be willing
To take each day
To walk every path
Knowing that no one
Has me in their thoughts
To survive yet not live
knowing no one sees inside
Through this facade
They all prefer the mask
No one wants the grief-stricken girl
No one cares about the grief-stricken face
They'd all rather forget
My existance
And carry on
While i blindly
Wallow in sorrow
poem by Blessing Msiza
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Nature's Sellout
Nature's Sellout
By Lori Triggs
Copyrighted August 26,2009
A sprinkling of sunshine to sellout on the plants
While mother nature wrapped up in her shawl,
She is watching nature’s splendors around her...
It really is a paradise:
A paradise of mother nature
From earths dust on nature’s crust.
The dewy drops on mushroom caps
Are nothing less than mother nature tears,
From rolling laughter... it’s perhaps:
Mother nature with claps of thunder with lighting.
Are mother nature tears throughout the years
The crystal glow in woodland streams.
Reflects the light of mother nature
Instead of sunshine, as it seems,
When mother nature showers fall to earth:
When mother nature falls to the earth.
It seems like sunshine on the streams
The twinkling in the starry sky.
Is nothing less than mother nature
That interrupt the flares on high,
The glow of nature’s moonlit blinks:
The moonlit blinks are mother nature
That twinkle high in starry sky.
poem by Lori Triggs
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The Purification
Softly the sunbeams gleamed athwart the Temple proud and high—
Built up by Israel’s wisest to the Lord of earth and sky—
Lighting its gorgeous fretted roof, and every sacred fold
Of mystic veil—from gaze profane that hid the ark of old.
Ne’er could man’s gaze have rested on a scene more rich and bright:
Agate and porphyry—precious gems—cedar and ivory white,
Marbles of perfect sheen and hue, sculptures and tintings rare,
With sandal wood and frankincense perfuming all the air.
But see, how steals up yonder aisle, with rows of columns high,
A female form, with timid step and downcast modest eye;—
A girl she seems by the fresh bloom that decks her lovely face—
With locks of gold and vestal brow, and form of childish grace.
Yet, no! those soft, slight arms enfold a helpless new-born child,
Late entered on this world of woe—still pure and undefiled;
While two white doves she humbly lays before the altar there
Tell that, despite her girlish years, she knows a matron’s care.
No fairer sight could heart have asked than that which met the view,
E’en had He been the child of sin—and she a sinner, too;
But how must heavenly hosts have looked in breathless rapture on,
Knowing Him, as the Temple’s Lord—the Word—th’Eternal Son!
While she was that Maid Mother rare—fairest of Adam’s race,
Whom Heaven’s Archangel, bending low, had hailed as full of grace,—
The Mother of that infant God close clasped unto her breast—
the Mary humble, meek and pure, above all women blessed.
poem by Rosanna Eleanor Leprohon
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Signing the Pledge
Do you see this cup, this tempting cup,
Its sparkle and its glow?
I tell you this cup has brought to me
A world of shame and woe.
Do you see that woman sad and wan?
One day with joy and pride,
With orange blossoms in her hair,
I claimed her as my bride.
And vowed that I would faithful prove
Till death our lives should part;
I've drenched her soul with floods of grief,
And almost crushed her heart.
Do you see that grayp;haired mother bend
Beneath her weight of years?
I've filled that aged mother's eyes
With many bitter tears.
Year after year for me she prays,
And tries her child to save;
I've almost brought her gray hairs down
In sorrow to the grave.
Do you see that boy whose wistful eyes
Are gazing on my face?
I've overshadowed his young life
With sorrow and disgrace.
He used to greet me with a smile,
His heart was light and glad;
I've seen him tremble at my voice,
I've made that heart so sad.
Do you see this pledge I've signed to-night?
My mother, wife, and boy
Shall read my purpose on that pledge
And smile through tears of joy.
To know this night, this very night,
I cast the winep;cup down,
And from the dust of a sinful life
Lift up my manhood's crown.
The faded face of my young wife
With roses yet shall bloom,
And joy shall light my mother's eyes
On the margin of the tomb.
I have vowed top;night my only boy,
With brow so fair and mile,
Shall not be taunted on the streets,
And called a drunkard's child.
Never again shall that young face
Whiten with grief and dread,
Because I've madly staggered home
And sold for drink his bread.
This strong right arm unnerved by rum
Shall battle with my fate;
And peace and comfort crown the home
By drink made desolate.
Like a drowning man, tempestp;tossed,
Clings to a rocky ledge,
With trembling hands I've learned to grasp
The gospel and the pledge.
A captive bounding from my chain,
I've rent each hateful band,
And by the help of grace divine
A victor hope to stand.
poem by Frances Ellen Watkins Harper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Crown Of Life
THE days, the doubts, the dreams of pain
Are over, not to come again,
And from the menace of the night
Has dawned the day-star of delight:
My baby lies against me pressed--
Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed!
His little head upon my arm,
His little body soft and warm,
His little feet that cannot stand
Held in the heart of this, my hand.
His little mouth close on my breast--
Thus, Mary's Son, are mothers blessed.
All dreams of deeds, all deeds of day
Are very faint and far away,
Yet you some day will stand upright
And fight God's foes, in manhood's might,
You--tiny, worshipped, clasped, caressed--
Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed.
Whatever grief may come to be
This hour divine goes on for me.
All glorious is my little span,
Since I, like God, have made a man,
A little image of God's best--
Thus, Mary's Son, are mothers blessed.
Come change, come loss, come worlds of tears,
Come endless chain of empty years;
They cannot take away the hour
That gives me You--my bird, my flower!
Thank God for this! Leave God the rest!--
Thus, Mother of God, are mothers blessed.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Grammer School
Today it was
twenty years ago
on the 3rd of June
where I found myself
on the top steps
of a church called Pompeii
wearing a thick light blue velvet suit
my oldman got it on Maxwell Street
the syle was 7 years passe'
still I stood there
and my legs were
just a little longer
than the hem of my pants
and I was feeling the heat
of a full belly sun.
youth draped itself
off my face
then the ending of my graduation
brought congrats and free beer
from everybody on Taylor st
my mother held her head high
as I hugged her and smiled
the wind never turned back
the faces of all became one
the door opened wide
and I walked without looking back
poem by Charles Lara
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The Visionary Portrait
I.
As by his lonely hearth he sate,
The shadow of a welcome dream
Pass'd o'er his heart,--disconsolate
His home did seem;
Comfort in vain was spread around,
For something still was wanting found.
II.
Therefore he thought of one who might
For ever in his presence stay;
Whose dream should be of him by night,
Whose smile should be for him by day;
And the sweet vision, vague and far,
Rose on his fancy like a star.
II.
'Let her be young, yet not a child,
Whose light and inexperienced mirth
Is all too wingéd and too wild
For sober earth,--
Too rainbow-like such mirth appears,
And fades away in misty tears.
IV.
'Let youth's fresh rose still gently bloom
Upon her smooth and downy cheek,
Yet let a shadow, not of gloom,
But soft and meek,
Tell that some sorrow she hath known,
Tho' not a sorrow of her own.
V.
'And let her eyes be of the grey,
The soft grey of the brooding dove,
Full of the sweet and tender ray
Of modest love;
For fonder shows that dreamy hue
Than lustrous black or heavenly blue.
VI.
'Let her be full of quiet grace,
No sparkling wit with sudden glow
Bright'ning her purely chisell'd face
And placid brow;
Not radiant to the stranger's eye,--
A creature easily pass'd by;
VII.
'But who, once seen, with untold power
For ever haunts the yearning heart,
Raised from the crowd that self-same hour
To dwell apart,
All sainted and enshrined to be
The idol of our memory!
VIII.
'And oh! let Mary be her name
It hath a sweet and gentle sound
At which no glories dear to fame
Come crowding round,
But which the dreaming heart beguiles
With holy thoughts and household smiles
IX.
'With peaceful meetings, welcomes kind,
And love, the same in joy and tears,
And gushing intercourse of mind
Thro' faithful years;
Oh! dream of something half divine,
Be real--be mortal--and be mine!'
poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Widows
The world was widowed by the death of Christ:
Vainly its suffering soul for peace has sought
And found it not.
For nothing, nothing, nothing has sufficed
To bring back comfort to the stricken house
From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse.
In its long widowhood the world has striven
To find diversion. It has turned away
From the vast awefull silences of Heaven
(Which answer but with silence when we pray)
And sought for something to assuage its grief.
Some surcease and relief
From sorrow, in pursuit of mortal joys.
It drowned God's stillness in a sea of noise;
It lost God's presence in a blur of forms;
Till, bruised and bleeding with life's brutal storms,
Unto immutable and speechless space
The World lifts up its face,
Its haggard, tear-drenched face,
And cries aloud for faith's supreme reward,
The promised Second Coming of its Lord.
So many widows, widows everywhere,
The whole earth teems with widows.
Guns that blare-
Winged monsters of the air-
And deep-sea monsters leaping through the water,
Hell bent on slaughter,
All these plough paths for widows. Maids at dawn,
And brides at noon, ere eventide pass on
Into the ranks of widows: but to weep
Just for a little space; then will grief sleep
In their young bosoms, where sweet hope belongs,
New love will sing once more its age-old songs,
And life bloom as a rose-tree blooms again
After a night of rain.
There are complacent widows clothed in crêpe
Who simulate a grief that is not real.
Through paths of seeming sorrow they escape
From disappointed hopes to some ideal,
Or, from the penury of unloved wives
Walk forth to opulent lives.
And there are widows who shed all their tears
Just at the first
In one wild burst,
And then go lilting lightly down the years:
Black butterflies, they flit from flower to flower
And live in the thin pleasures of the hour;
Merging their tender memories of the dead
In tenderer dreams of being once more wed.
But there are others: women who have proved
That loving greatly means so being loved.
Women who through full beauteous years have grown
Into the very body, souls, and heart
Of their dear comrades. When death tears apart
Such close-knit bonds as these, and one alone
Out to the larger freer life is called,
And one is left-
Then God in heaven must sometimes be appalled
At the wild anguish of the soul bereft,
And unto His Son must say, 'I did not know
Mortals could suffer so.'
But Christ, remembering Gethsemane,
Will answer softly, 'It was known to Me.'
God's alchemist, old Time, will merge to calm
That bitter anguish; but there is no balm
Save the sweet certitude that each long day
Is one step in a stair
That circles up to where freed spirits stay.
Widows, so many widows everywhere.
The world was widowed by the death of Christ,
And nothing, nothing, nothing has sufficed
To bring back comfort to the stricken house
From whence has gone the Master and the Spouse.
Hasten, dear Lord, with Thy Millennium,
Hasten and come.
poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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A Soldier Uniform
There lay the young soldier, see, from his side,
Flows swiftly the current whose dark pulsing tide
Is bearing away the bright sands of life,
And closing forever this wild dream of strife.
Farewell! life is o'er, earth fades from his sight,
Around him is closing death's long dreamless night.
Then softly as star-light melts into day,
On pinions of Angels his soul passed away.
And who was he? A young soldier boy,
Of his home the pride and joy;
The pet and darling of every heart,
That in his young life has shared a part.
His fond Mother blessed him and looked up above,
Commending to Heaven the child of her love.
Then parting the flowers they laid him to rest,
And heaped the green sod o'er the young soldier breast.
Fold it up carefully, lay it aside,
Gently touch it and look upon it with pride.
For close it be to his Mother heart for evermore
The uniform her son had wore.
poem by Othel Cowan
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Gethsemane
1914-18
The Garden called Gethsemane
In Picardy it was,
And there the people came to see
The English soldiers pass.
We used to pass -- we used to pass
Or halt, as it might be,
And ship our masks in case of gas
Beyond Gethsemane.
The Garden called Gethsemane,
It held a pretty lass,
But all the time she talked to me
I prayed my cup might pass.
The officer sat on the chair,
The men lay on the grass,
And all the time we halted there
I prayed my cup might pass.
It didn't pass -- it didn't pass --
It didn't pass from me.
I drank it when we met the gas
Beyond Gethsemane.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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