From The Times Dispatch, November 2, 1914.
Last year the harvest moon looked down
On bounteous fields of grain,
A peaceful scene where lovers strolled
Along the shady lane.
In happy homes the mothers sang
Their evening lullaby,
And little children had no fear
Of danger lurking nigh.
But now the demon war is loosed
And terrors fill the night,
The dangers of the burning home,
The dangers of the fight.
Mothers and children hide and wait,
They listen, fear, and pray,
While shells are bursting all around
And armies pass their way.
Tonight upon the harvest field,
The moon is shining bright,
Where soldier forms lie mute and still
With faces ghastly white.
Oh, what a reaping! Oh, what loss!
The flowers of earth cut down—
The voice of mourning in the field
And by the ruined town!
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