The hearts of mothers are hid things
In these the days of woe,
And troops of strange thoughts move therein
Silently to and fro.
They are not thoughts of yester-year,
Or thoughts of you and me
And that which we have done, or do,
By air, or land, or sea.
But these are thoughts steel-bright with pain,
And death-thoughts bare and stark,
And shining thoughts of armaments
That glitter through the dark.
They move, old passions and revolts,
Fresh-called, yet stiff with scars,
To music crimsoned with the clash
Of endless ancient wars.
And those who summon memories
From pathways of the sun,
When death spoke life most solemnly
Ere new life was begun,
They dream of a strange blooming
That dawns in greater birth:
The frail, bright flower of selflessness
Brought back again to earth.
They feel, the Givers of all Life,
Great need to give again
The utmost dower of womanhood,
All mystery—all pain.