Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | February 16, 2009


by Grace Hazard Conkling (1878 – 1958).







“MOTHER, the poplars cross the moon; 

  The road runs on, so white and far, 

We shall not reach the city soon: 

  Oh, tell me where we are!” 


“Have patience, patience, little son,                         5

  And we shall find the way again: 

(God show me the untraveled one! 

  God give me rest from men!)” 


“Mother, you did not tell me why 

  You hurried so to come away.                                10

I saw big soldiers riding by; 

  I should have liked to stay.” 


“Hush, little man, and I will sing 

  Just like a soldier, if I can— 

They have a song for everything.                             15

  Listen, my little man! 


“This is the soldiers’ marching song: 

  We’ll play this is the village street—” 

“Yes, but this road is very long, 

  And stones have hurt my feet.”                            20


“Nay, little pilgrim, up with you! 

  And yonder field shall be the town. 

I’ll show you how the soldiers do 

  Who travel up and down. 


“They march and sing and march again,               25

  Not minding all the stones and dust: 

They go, (God grant me rest from men!) 

  Forward, because they must.” 


Mother, I want to go to sleep.” 

  “No, darling! Here is bread to eat!                         30

(O God, if thou couldst let me weep, 

  Or heal my broken feet!)”



Leave a Reply

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s


%d bloggers like this: