From The Sun, January 26, 1915. By H. S. Haskins.
Gone are the hearts that bore them,
Gone with the dead and missed.
Lost are the hands which soothed them,
Still are the lips that kissed.
Silenced the songs which lulled them,
Sweet at the close of day,
Oh, for the angel mothers
So far, so far away!
Who is to plan their future?
Who is to teach them games?
Who is to answer questions?
Who is to give them names?
Where winds the path tomorrow?
Where runs the road next year?
Who is to guide their footsteps
Up through the hills from here?