The Return

A year has passed, I know, because

     The roses are in bloom once more;

And o’er the hill I know just where

     They grow afore a kitchen door.

I’ll seek once more that sainted spot,

     And smell the roses as of yore.

‘Tis strange! My eyes they play me false?

     My God! the cottage is no more,

But is a heap of ruins now,

     No friendly sight, no friendly sound;

The rose bush, mangled and forlorn,

     A poor thing trailing on the ground.

O, victim of the gunner’s aim,

     Midst scenes of strife and battle’s roar!

He never would have aimed just here

     Had he but known that kitchen door.

July 9, 1916