POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
REFUGEES
Belgium—1914
"Mother, the poplars cross the moon:
The road runs on, so white and far,
We shall not reach the city soon:
Oh, tell me where we are!"
"Have patience, patience, little son,
And we shall find the way again:
(God show me the untraveled one!
God give me rest from men!)"
"Mother, you did not tell me why
You hurried so to come away.
I saw big soldiers riding by;
I should have liked to stay."
"Hush, little man, and I will sing
Just like a soldier, if I can—
They have a song for everything.
Listen, my little man!
"This is the soldiers' marching song:
We'll play this is the village street—"
"Yes, but this road is very long,
And stones have hurt my feet."
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