To Leucha Mary Warner
He is 'Missing,' and forlorn
Drag her days in grief and pain.
Every morn a hope is born,
Only to be lost again.
'Missing!' Almost better 'Killed.'
The long anguish breaks her heart
That's a dead thing, numbed and chilled
Till the live fear bids it start.
Now a knocking at the door,
Now a shouting in the street,
Makes her poor heart run before,
The most bitter news to meet.
'Missing!' It may be he dies
'Mid his foes and comfortless.
When sleep shuts her heavy eyes,
Still she seeks him in distress.
Dear, he is not missing, not lost.
Rest your heart as on a bed.
For the One who loves him most
Knows where he has laid his head.
He accounted of all worth,
This beloved bought with a price,
Watchers look East, South, and North
From the heights of Paradise
Lest that he take any ill.
Still the Mighty Lover goes,
Seeks the beloved o'er many a hill.
Be at rest, dear child! He knows!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem