Chapter IV

It may be that in future years, When life serenely yields its best Of steadfast joy and fleeting tears, And, blessing, you move on, thrice blest,--

Amid glad tasks of love and home, And fond caresses every day, A softened thought of me shall come And fly to reach me when you pray;

Then I shall tremble where I sit Unhelped through those gray years to be, As, like a benediction, it Shall flood in sweetness over me.

* * * * *

MARGARET SACKVILLE

THE RETURN

Last night, within our little town
The Dead came marching through;
In a long line, like living men,
Just as they used to do.

Only, so long a line it seemed
You'd think the Judgment Day
Had dawned, to see them slowly pass,
With faces turned one way.

They walked no longer foe and foe
But brother bound to brother;
Poor men, common men they walked
Friendly to one another.

Just as in life they might have done
Who stabbed and slew instead....
So quietly and evenly they walked
These million gentle dead.

TO----