The Only Son Poem by Sir Henry Newbolt

O bitter wind toward the sunset blowing,
What of the dales tonight?
In yonder gray old hall what fires are glowing,
What ring of festal lights?


In the great window as the day was dwindling
I saw an old man stand;
His head was proudly held and his eyes kindling,
But the list shook in his hand.'


O wind of twilight, was there no word uttered,
No sound of joy or wail?

'A great fight and a good death,' he muttered;
'Trust him, he would not fail.''


What of the chamber dark where she was lying
For whom all life is done?

'Within her heart she rocks a dead child, crying
'My son, my little son.''