I see men tangled in pointed wire, The sport of the blazing sun, Mangled and maimed by a leaden fire As the tides of battle run, And I fancy I hear their piteous calls For merciful death, and then The cannons cease and the darkness falls, And those fluttering things are men. Out there in the night they beg for death, Yet the Reaper spurns their cries, And it seems his jest to leave them breath For their pitiful pleas and sighs. And I am here in my cozy room In touch with the joys of life, I am miles away from the fields of doom And the gory scenes of strife. I never have vainly called for aid, Nor suffered real pangs of thirst, I have marched with life in its best parade And never have seen its worst. In the flowers of ease I have ever basked, And I think as the Flag I see How much of service from some it's asked, How little of toil from me. A Father's Thoughts Because I am his father, they Expect me to put grief away; Because I am a man, and rough And sometimes short of speech and gruff, The women folks at home believe His absence doesn't make me grieve; But how I felt, they little know, The day I smiled and let him go. They little know the dreams I had Long cherished for my sturdy lad; They little guess the wrench it meant That day when off to war he went; They little know the tears I checked While standing, smiling and erect; They never heard my smothered sigh When it was time to say good-bye. "What does his father think and say?" The neighbors ask from day to day. "Oh, he's a man," they answer then. "And you know how it is with men. But little do they ever say, They do not feel the self-same way; He seems indifferent and grim And yet he's very proud of him." Indifferent and grim! Oh, heart, Be brave enough to play the part, Let not the grief in you be shown, Keep all your loneliness unknown, To you the women folks must turn For comfort when their sorrows burn. You must not at this time reveal The pain and anguish that you feel. Oh, tongue, be silent through the years, And eyes, keep back always the tears, And let them never see or know My hidden weight of grief and woe. Though every golden dream I had Was centered in my little lad, Alone my sorrow I must bear. They must not know how much I care. Though women folks may talk and weep, A man, unseen, his grief must keep, And hide behind his smile and pride The loneliness that dwells inside. And so, from day to day, I go, Playing the part of man, although Beneath the rough outside and grim, I think and dream and pray for him. The Waiter at the Camp