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 new 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 valor 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 harbor of peace be brought.

Mothers of Sons, Mothers of Sons,
God will take care of your precious ones

by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Poem by special permission of the author.
Liberty Publishing Co., New Haven, Conn. 1918.

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