Poetry Archives

“Where is your little boy to-day?”
      I asked her at the gate.
“I used to see him at his play,
      And often I would wait:
He was so beautiful, so bright,
      I watched him with delight.

“He had a tiny motor-car
      And it was painted red;
He wound it up; it ran so far,
      So merrily it sped.
I think he told me that it was
      A gift from Santa Claus.”

The woman said: “It ran so far
      He followed it with joy.
Then came a real motor-car,—
      He sought to save his toy . . .
My little boy is far away
      Where angel children play.

“His father perished in the War;
      Now I am all alone,
And death is all I’m longing for . . .”
      So said with face of stone
That woman. “Curse their crazy cars
                 And cruel wars!”