Mothers of Sons, Mothers of Sons,
    Do you hear the guns?
The terrible guns that are bellowing death
    With every breath.
Oh, why are you sending your precious ones
    To follow and feed the guns?

We are sending our sons to the hell of war
    To meet the duties we bore them for:
The duty of doing what in their sight
    Seems just and right;
The duty of helping the fainting souls
    To find their courage and gain their goals;
And the duty of cutting before full grown
    The harvest of tares, by tyranny sown,
And weeding its tangle of roots all out
    So never again may a stalk of it sprout.

Though our sons may fall and our hearts sup sorrow,
    We are helping the race to a fairer morrow.
Life at longest is here but a span,
    But endless the life of the spirit of man;
And the growth of a soul through deeds of worth
    Is the aim and purpose of life on earth.
Better die young for a cause or a creed
    Than to live a satisfied slave of greed.
We counted the cost ere we told them to go,
    And the price we must pay for their valour we know.
But down through the ocean of blood there runs
    A Gulf Stream of love from the Source of the Suns,
And whoever follows his highest thought
    Shall into God's harbour of peace be brought.

Mothers of Sons, Mothers of Sons,
    Friends or Enemies, Allies or Huns,
God will take care of your precious ones.

Poems of affection. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
London: Gay & Hancock, 1920.

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