|
|
The Only Son
By Henry John Newbolt, Sir
O Bitter wind toward the sunset blowing,
What of the dales to-night?
In yonder gray old hall what fires are glowing,
What ring of festal light?
"In the great window as the day was dwindling
I saw an old man stand;
His head was proudly held and his eyes kindling,
But the list shook in his hand."
O wind of twilight, was there no word uttered,
No sound of joy or wail?
"'A great fight and a good death,' he muttered;
'Trust him, he would not fail.'"
What of the chamber dark where she was lying;
For whom all life is done?
"Within her heart she rocks a dead child, crying
'My son, my ltttle son.'"
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 381 times.
|
|
