You casual mothers, who no longer care; You, who so lightly bore your sons, Grudgingly nursed, nor felt maternal pride, However faint, when toddling ones Turned breathlessly to you, triumphant and wide-eyed, For commendation -- You who have sons to spare! You, who ignored their little stomach-gnawings Because to satisfy them meant self-deprivation; Who doubtless frowned lest aught Of tenderness or tolerance be taught Them, or consideration, or that might Is not a constant synonym of right -- You, who have sons to spare! You, who have watched young limbs mature. Firm and responsive with that pure Red fluid that sets flesh aglow: You, who have watched them grow -- Yet, who have sons to spare! You will not shudder that some shrapnel-shell May stab this flesh into a burning hell Till gushes forth the torrent coursing there, Sending your son to start his journey West From out the shambles of some shelled machine-gun nest! Go trade them for dead heroes; nor Wait long to loose the dogs of war -- You, who have sons to spare! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INSCRIPTION ON THE MONUMENT OF A NEWFOUNDLAND DOG by GEORGE GORDON BYRON RID OF HIS ENGINE by ALEXANDER ANDERSON AWAKENING by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE TO A DEAF AND DUMB LADY by JOHN GARDINER CALKINS BRAINARD WINTER STORES by CHARLOTTE BRONTE EPITAPH ON MR. JOHN DEANE, OF NEW COLLEGE by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) |