Children Of The War

SHRUNKEN little bodies, pallid baby faces,

Eyes of staring terror, innocence defiled,

Tiny bones that strew the sand of silent places,

— This upon our own star where Jesus was a child.

Broken buds of April, is there any garden

Where they yet may blossom, comforted of sun,

While their sad Creator bows to ask their pardon

For the life He gave them, life and death in one?

Spared by steel and hunger, still shall horror blazon

Those white and tender spirits with anguish unforgot;

Half a century hence the haggard look shall gaze on

The outrage of a mother, shall see a grandsire shot.

Man who wings the azure, lassoes the hoof sparkling,

Fire-maned steeds of glory and binds them to his car,

Cannot man whose searchlight leaves no horizon darkling

Safeguard little children upon our golden star?