JUST as of yore the friendly rain Patters its old and frank refrain; Just as of yore the world swings by The little window where I lie Watching the shadows wax and wane.
I see, beyond the Aegean main, His cross upon the grave-scarred plain— Yet still the dawn-flush climbs the sky, Just as of yore!
His cross—and mine! They try in vain With careful phrase to stanch the pain; They say, ‘A hero’s death!’ But I Long only for his footstep nigh; Long only for my boy again, Just as of yore!
