His Mother Poem by Margaret Widdemer

HE will be cold tonight–
Always he felt it so.
(Strange not to lift the light,
Strange not to go,
Softly– for he forgets,
Careless as glad!–
Drawing the coverlets
Over the lad.)

Blankly the covers lie,
Smooth and untossed,
By me the fire burns high,
Outside is frost . . .
Has it had rest tonight,
Dear tumbled head?
Lord, I would know– would know
If he were dead!

It must be cold and wet
Where our troops lie . . .
(Lord Jesus, spare him yet!
Let him not die!)
Still here . . . so still . . . and white
One far clear star . . .
He will be cold tonight,
Where the troops are.