From the Newark Evening Star, July 18, 1914. By Edgar A. Guest.
I’m writing her a letter
That I’m getting on all right,
That I’m really feeling better,
And I’m full of vim and fight.
I’m telling her I’m working
Every minute of the day,
And I have no time for shirking
And I have no time to play.
I am telling her that nightly
I am sitting round the home,
And that time is passing lightly,
And I’ve no desire to roam.
I am telling her I’m hoping
That a month or two they’ll stay
Where the hillsides green are sloping
And the little ones can play.
I am glad they’re where the breezes
Gently kiss them as they run,
And I’m telling her it pleases
Me to think of all their fun.
And I write that I’m not lonely,
But it’s all a fearful sham,
For they’d come back if they only
Knew how miserable I am.
For I miss their sweet caresses
And I miss their shouts of glee,
And the empty home depresses
Now the very soul of me.
I miss the cry of “pappy”
From each roguish little tot.
I am writing that I’m happy
But I’ll bet she knows I’m not.