Toll! Let the great bells toll Till the clashing air is dim. Did we wrong this parted soul? We will make it up to him. Toll! Let him never guess What work we set him to. Laurel, laurel, yes; He did what we bade him do. Praise, and never a whispered hint but the fight he fought was good; Never a word that the blood on his sword was his country's own heart's-blood. A flag for the soldier's bier Who dies that his land may live; O, banners, banners here, That he doubt not nor misgive! That he heed not from the tomb The evil days draw near When the nation, robed in gloom, With its faithless past shall strive. Let him never dream that his bullet's scream went wide of its island mark, Home to the heart of his darling land where she stumbled and sinned in the dark. UNTIL THE TROUBLING OF THE WATERS Two hours, two hours: God give me strength for it! He who has given so much strength to me And nothing to my child, must give to-day What more I need to try and save my child And get for him the life I owe to him. To think that I may get it for him now, Before he knows how much he might have missed That other boys have got! The bitterest thought Of all that plagued me when he came was this, How some day he would see the difference, And drag himself to me with puzzled eyes To ask me why it was. He would have been Cruel enough to do it, knowing not That was the question my rebellious heart Cried over and over one whole year to God, And got no answer and no help at all. If he had asked me, what could I have said? What single word could I have found to say To hide me from his searching, puzzled gaze? Some coward thing at best, never the truth; The truth I never could have told him. No, I never could have said, "God gave you me To fashion you a body, right and strong, With sturdy little limbs and chest and neck For fun and fighting with your little mates, Great feats and voyages in the breathless world Of out-of-doors,--He gave you me for this, And I was such a bungler, that is all!" O, the old lie--that thought was not the worst. I never have been truthful with myself. For by the door where lurked one ghostly thought I stood with crazy hands to thrust it back If it should dare to peep and whisper out Unbearable things about me, hearing which The women passing in the streets would turn To pity me and scold me with their eyes, Who was so bad a mother and so slow To learn to help God do his wonder in her That she--O my sweet baby! It was not The fear that you would see the difference Between you and the other boys and girls; No, no, it was the dimmer, wilder fear, That you might never see it, never look