Whene'er I think of you, my fighting son,
You draw quite near to me.
You speak, you move, as you have always done,
Though my quick memory.
You are myself -- bone of my bones; all me.
Sometimes I seem to leap
Red o'er your parapets of misery,
While you lie here asleep.
I have known pain and patience both for you.
Rough torments I have slain --
Moulded you, manned you, made you bold and true,
Yielded you heart and brain.
You were my babe, my all, my lighting son,
Taking full life from me.
Still, still you draw it, and our two lives run
In perfect unity.
I fight with you. I charge the hot, dark hill.
I meet your pangs, your woes.
And I shall hold you, strong of heart and will,
Till our full triumph flows.
If you fall, I must fall - but not to death.
Oh, to eternity
You still are mine beyond the sobbing breath
The last pain draws from me.
First published in The Bulletin, 27 December 1917
