A treasury of war poetry, British and American poems of the world war, 1914-1919/The Mother
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For works with similar titles, see The Mother.
THE MOTHER
HER boys are not shut out. They come
Homing like pigeons to her door,
Sure of her tender welcome home,
As many a time before.
Their bed is made so smooth and sweet,
The fire is lit—the table spread;
She has poured water for their feet,
That they be comforted.
As with a fluttering of wings
They are come home, come home to stay;
With all the bitter dreadful things
Forgot, clean washed away.
They are so glad to stay, so glad
They nestle to her gown's soft flow,
As in the loving times they had,
Long ago, long ago.
Oh, not like lonely ghosts in mist
Her boys come from the night and rain,
But to be clasped, but to be kissed,
And not go out again.