But waiting for us, by the wood,Pale in the dusk, again she stood.And then her arms round Father prestAnd drew his head upon her breast:"The worst that comes is never Death,For honor lived while he drew breath!" Said Mother.
Often, when some great deed is criedOf one, by flood or flame, who died,Of men who sought and won their fame,While all the land rings with some name Or other,
I think me of a warfare long,Of Marah's water, bitter, strong,Of sword and fire that pierced the heart,Of all the dumb, unuttered part,And say, with eyes grown misty, wet(Love's vision, that cannot forget),"All heroes are not counted yet— There's Mother."
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