The Seed-Merchants Son

The Seed-Merchant has lost his son,
His dear, his loved, his only one.

So young he was, Even now it seems
He was a child with a child’s dreams.

He would race over the meadow-bed
With his bright, bright eyes and his cheeks all red.

Fair and healthy and long of limb;
It made one young just to look at him.

His school books, unto the cupboard thrust,
Have scarcely had time to gather dust.

Died in the war….And it seems his eyes
Must have looked at death with a child’s surprise.

The Seed-Merchant goes on his way:
I saw him out on his land today;

Old to have fathered so young a son,
And now the last glint of his youth is gone.

What could one say to him in his need?
Little there seemed to say indeed.

So still he was that the birds flew round
The grey of his head without a sound,

Careless and tranquil in the air,
As if naught human were standing there.

On, never a soul could understand
Why he looked at the earth, and the seed in his hand,

As he had never before seen seed or sod:
I heard him murmur: ‘Thank God, thank God!’