Poor kids,
why do you hang
to the branches
of these barren, campus trees?
Why won't you let go?
Do your mothers
remember the color of your eyes?
Think of all the leaves;
it is telling how they lie.
But I cannot cry.
Did I know the sorrow
whispering your names?
I hear something, vaguely,
about a war, and sigh,
and the autumn leaves lie.
I cannot cry.
O, Mother Grief,
do not be deceived,
war is kind.
Really, I feel for you poor kids,
God knows;
but you can't expect the best to die for something low.
Does it hurt to die?
Hell, no!
And I know; somewhere I've read it's so.
Besides you're dying for your country,
and how glorious that must be!
We will remember you;
do not doubt that;
and, by golly, we will cry
to think how young you were
and that you had to die.
And if the giving was your soul,
then you gave it with our pride.
And that should have given comfort
on the day you had to die.
O, Mother Grief,
kiss your kids goodbye,
but do not cry.
War is kind
