To My Daughter Betty, The Gift of God by T.M. Kettle
T minus 2 days until the wedding and things are a little hectic. Also, I have a cold. Inspiration is hard to come by, so I’m falling back on the reader-suggested war poems again. I took the text from Bartleby.
To My Daughter Betty, The Gift of God
By T.M. Kettle
In wiser days, my darling rosebud, blown
To beauty proud as was your mother’s prime,
In that desired, delayed, incredible time,
You’ll ask why I abandoned you, my own,
And the dear heart that was your baby throne,
To dice with death. And oh! they’ll give you rhyme
And reason: some will call the thing sublime,
And some decry it in a knowing tone.
So here, while the mad guns curse overhead,
And tired men sigh with mud for couch and floor,
Know that we fools, now with the foolish dead,
Died not for flag, nor King, nor Emperor,—
But for a dream, born in a herdsman’s shed,
And for the secret Scripture of the poor.
