The Poetry Corner

The Only Son

By Henry John Newbolt, Sir

O Bitter wind toward the sunset blowing, What of the dales to-night? In yonder gray old hall what fires are glowing, What ring of festal light? "In the great window as the day was dwindling I saw an old man stand; His head was proudly held and his eyes kindling, But the list shook in his hand." O wind of twilight, was there no word uttered, No sound of joy or wail? "'A great fight and a good death,' he muttered; 'Trust him, he would not fail.'" What of the chamber dark where she was lying; For whom all life is done? "Within her heart she rocks a dead child, crying 'My son, my ltttle son.'"