Women and the War

Over the twilight field, Over the glimmering field And bleeding furrows, with their sodden yield Of sheaves that still did writhe, After the scythe; The teeming field, and darkly overstrewn With all the garnered fullness of that noon -- Two looked upon each other. One was a Woman, men had called their mother: And one the Harvest Moon. And one the Harvest moon Who stood, who gazed On those unquiet gleanings, where they bled; Till the lone Woman said: "But we were crazed . . . We should laugh now together, I and you; We two. You, for your ever dreaming it was worth A star's while to look on, and light the earth; And I, for ever telling to my mind Glory it was and gladness, to give birth To human kind. I gave the breath, -- and thought it not amiss, I gave the breath to men, For men to slay again; Lording it over anguish, all to give My life, that men might live, For this. "You will be laughing now, remembering We called you once Dead World, and barren thing. Yes, so we called you then, You, far more wise Than to give life to men." Over the field that there Gave back the skies A scattered upward stare From sightless eyes, The furrowed field that lay Striving awhile, through many a bleeding dune Of throbbing clay, -- but dumb and quiet soon, She looked; and went her way, The Harvest Moon.

Josephine Preston Peabody

Moon, slow rising, over the trembling sea-rim, Moon of the lifted tides and their folden burden, Look, look down. And gather the blinded oceans. Moon of compassion. Come, white Silence, over the one sea pathway: Pour with hallowing hands on the surge and outcry, Silver flame; and over the famished blackness, Petals of moonlight. Once again, the formless void of a world-wreck Gropes its way through the echoing dark of chaos: Tide on tide, to the calling lost horizons, -- One in the darkness. You that veil the light of the all-beholding, Shed white tidings down to the dooms of longing, Down to the timeless dark; and the sunken treasures, One in the darkness. Touch, and harken, -- under that shrouding silver, Rise and fall, the heart of the sea and its legions, All and one; one with the breath of the deathless, Rising and falling. Touch and waken so, to a far hereafter, Ebb and flow, the deep, and the dead in their longing: Till at last, on the hungering face of the waters, There shall be Light. Light of Light, give us to see, for their sake. Light of Light, grant them eternal peace; And let light perpetual shine upon them; Light, everlasting.

Josephine Preston Peabody

Here is his little cambric frock That I laid by in lavender so sweet, And here his tiny shoe and sock I made with loving care for his dear feet. I fold the frock across my breast, And in imagination, ah, my sweet, Once more I hush my babe to rest, And once again I warm those little feet. Where do those strong young feet now stand? In flooded trench, half numb to cold or pain, Or marching through the desert sand To some dread place that they may never gain. God guide him and his men to-day! Though death may lurk in any tree or hill, His brave young spirit is their stay, Trusting in that they'll follow where he will. They love him for his tender heart When poverty or sorrow asks his aid, But he must see each do his part -- Of cowardice alone is he afraid. I ask no honours on the field, That other men have won as brave as he -- I only pray that God may shield My son, and bring him safely back to me!

Ada Tyrrell

This was the gleam then that lured from far You son and my son to the Holy War: Your son and my son for the accolade With the banner of Christ over them, in steel arrayed. All quiet roads of life ran on to this; When they were little for their mother's kiss. Little feet hastening, so soft, unworn, To the vows and the vigil and the road of thorn. You son and my son, the downy things, Sheltered in mother's breast, by mother's wings, Should they be broken in the Lord's wars -- Peace! He Who has given them -- are they not His? Dream of knight's armour and the battle-shout, Fighting and falling at the last redoubt, Dream of long dyng on the field of slain; This was the dream that lured, nor lured in vain. These were the Voices they heard from far; Bugles and trumpets of the Holy War. Your son and my son have heard the call, Your son and my son have stormed the wall. Your son and my son, clean as new swords; Your man and my man and now the Lord's! Your son and my son for the Great Crusade, With the banner of Christ over them -- our knights new-made.

Katharine Tynan

I went upon a journey To countries far away, From province unto province To pass my holiday. And when I came to Serbia, In a quiet little town At an inn with a flower-filled garden With a soldier I sat down. Now he lies dead at Belgrade. You heard the cannon roar! It boomed from Rome to Stockholm, It pealed to the far west shore. And when I came to Russia, A man with flowing hair Called me his friend and showed me A flowing river there. Now he lies dead at Lemberg, Beside another stream, In his dark eyes extinguished The friendship of his dream. And then I crossed two countries Whose names on my lips are sealed . . . Not yet had they flung their challenge Nor led upon the field Sons who lie dead at Liège, Dead by the Russian lance, Dead in southern mountains, Dead through the farms of France. I stopped in the land of Louvain, So tranquil, happy, then. I lived with a good old woman, With her sons and her grandchildren. Now they lie dead at Louvain, Those simple kindly folk. Some heard, some fled. It must be Some slept, for they never woke. I came to France. I was thirsty. I sat me down to dine. The host and his young wife served me With bread and fruit and wine. Now he lies dead at Cambrai -- He was sent among the first. In dreams she sees him dying Of wounds, of heat, of thirst. At last I passed to Dover And saw upon the shore A tall young English captain And soldiers, many more. Now they lie dead at Dixmude, The brave, the strong, the young! I turned unto my homeland, All my journey sung!

Grace Fallow Norton

Dear son of mine, the baby days are over, I can no longer shield you from the earth; Yet in my heart always I must remember How through the dark I fought to give you birth. Dear son of mine, by all the lives behind you; By all our fathers fought for in the past; In this great war to which your birth has brought you, Acquit you well, hold you our honour fast! God guard you, son of mine, where'er you wander; God lead the banners under which you fight; You are my all, I give you to the Nation, God shall uphold you that you fight aright.

Margaret Peterson

Robbed mother of the stricken Motherland -- Two hearts in one and one among the dead, Before your grave with an uncovered head I, that am man, disquiet and silent stand In reverence. It is your blood they shed; It is your sacred self that they demand, For one you bore in joy and hope, and planned Would make youself eternal, now has fled. But though you yielded him unto the knife And altar with a royal sacrifice Of your most precious self and dearer life -- Your master gem and pearl above all price -- Content you; for the dawn this night restore Shall be the dayspring of his soul and yours.

Eden Philpotts

I feel the spring far off, far off, The faint, far scent of bud and leaf -- Oh, how can spring take heart to come To a world in grief, Deep grief? The sun turns north, the days grow long, Later the evening star grows bright -- How can the daylight linger on For men to fight Still fight? The grass is waking in the ground, Soon it will rise and blow in waves -- How can it have the heart to sway Over the graves, New graves? Under the boughs where lovers walked The apple-blooms will shed their breath -- But what of all the lovers now Parted by Death, Grey Death?

Sara Teasdale

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