To Leucha Mary
He is "Missing," and forlorn Drag her days in grief and pain.
Every morn a hope is born, Only to be lost again."Missing!" Almost better "Killed." The long anguish breaks her
That's a dead thing, numbed and chilled Till the live fear bids it start.
Now a knocking at the door, Now a shouting in the street,
Makes her poor heart run before, The most bitter news to meet."Missing!" It may be he dies 'Mid his foes and comfortless.
When sleep shuts her heavy eyes, Still she seeks him in distress.
Dear, he is not missing, not lost. Rest your heart as on a bed.
For the One who loves him most Knows where he has laid his head.
He accounted of all worth, This beloved bought with a price,
Watchers look East,
South, and North From the heights of
Lest that he take any ill. Still the Mighty Lover goes,
Seeks the beloved o'er many a hill. Be at rest, dear child!
He knows!
