Page:Poet Lore, volume 28, 1917.djvu/497

Who was he?
A little soldier unknown,
Still almost a child:
So small is the coffin
The banner so great! . . .
Perhaps yonder in the village
The mother awaiting
Knows not that he is dead,
Knows it not yet.
And fondling her knitting needles on the doorstep
She smiles : At Christmas he will come . . .
. . . A little soldier unknown.
It is vain to ask of his cradle,
And his name and the time
He lived. We know where and how
He died. All who pass
Recognize in him a brother
And murmur: Farewell! . . . With the simple
Sadness wrung from our hearts
By the death of one who was born
Of our mother. His name is in us all,
In all things. His blood
Was ours, and ours was in him.
Fountain where surge forth
Blood now returned to the pure
Fountain where surge forth
The powers of men. Name
Divine: Motherland.