Poor little soldier, lying there weak and wounded,

Why were you horn to live so brief a day?

Is your young manhood hut to serve as target

For the grim guns of war to injure or to slay?

So young to die. On lip and cheek and forehead

Still flame youth's brilliant colors, white and red,

And your clear eyes so full of hope and courage,

Must we tomorrow count you with the dead?

All life before you; glad and useful hours

Lay shining in your path unsullied, clear,

Youth's dreams fulfilled in manhood's ampler duties,

A wife, a home, and all that we hold dear

Vanished. In one short hour's tragic action,

Swept from the world of man and manly ways.

Naught but a memory in your mother's bosom,

Shall soon recall your transient, earthly days.

In vain our aid. Our utmost skill and patience

Cannot re-string the loosened silver cord.

The golden bowl is broken at the fountain,

And your lone soul must hence to meet it's God,

Lonely, yet clad in beauty pure and holy,

For of your best you gave, unstinted, glad,

That at your country's call all selfish thought and purpose

Faded away—you gave your life, dear lad!

Dinard, 1915