2 min read
Слушать(AI)The Oldest Drama
"It fell on a day, that he went out to his father to the reapers. And he said unto his father,
My head, my head. And he said to a lad, Carry him to his mother. And . . . he sat on her knees till noon, and then died. And she went up, and laid him on the bed. . . . And shut the door upon him and went out."Immortal story that no mother's heart Ev'n yet can read, nor feel the biting
That rent her soul! Immortal not by art Which makes a long past sorrow sting
Like grief of yesterday: but since it said In simplest word the truth which all may see,
Where any mother sobs above her dead And plays anew the silent tragedy.
John McCrae
Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (November 30, 1872 – January 28, 1918) was a Canadian poet, physician, author, artist and soldier during Worl
Comments
You need to be signed in to write comments
Other author posts
The Anxious Dead
O guns, fall silent till the dead men hear Above their heads the legions pressing on:(These fought their fight in time of bitter fear, And died not knowing how the day had gone )O flashing muzzles, pause, and let them see The coming dawn...
The Warrior
He wrought in poverty, the dull grey days, But with the night his little lamp-lit Was bright with battle flame, or through a haze Of smoke that stung his eyes he heard the Of Bluecher's guns; he shared Almeida's scars,
In Due Season
If night should come and find me at my toil, When all Life's day I had, tho' faintly, wrought, And shallow furrows, cleft in stony soil Were all my labour: Shall I count it If only one poor gleaner, weak of hand,
Upon Watts Picture Sic Transit
What I spent I had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have But yesterday the tourney, all the eager joy of life, The waving of the banners, and the rattle of the spears,
