Their Frailty

 He's got a Blighty wound.
 He’s safe; and then 
War’s fine and bold and bright.
 
She can forget the doomed and prisoned men 
Who agonize and fight.
 

He’s back in France.
 She loathes the listless strain
And peril of his plight, 
Beseeching Heaven to send him home again, 
She prays for peace each night.
 

Husbands and sons and lovers; everywhere 
They die; War bleeds us white
Mothers and wives and sweethearts,—they don’t care 
So long as He’s all right.

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