Author: Ella Wheeler Wilcox

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    She rose up in the early dawn,
         And white and silently she moved
    About the house.    Four men had gone
         To battle for the land they loved,
    And she, the mother and the wife,
    Waited for tidings from the strife.
    How still the house seemed! and her tread
    Was like the footsteps of the dead.

    The long day passed, the dark night came;
         She had not seen a human face.
    Some voice spoke suddenly her name.
         How loud it echoed in that place
    Where, day by day, no sound was heard
    But her own footsteps!    "Bring you word,"
    She cried to whom she could not see,
    "Word from the battle-plain to me?"

    A soldier entered at the door,
         And stood within the dim firelight:
    "I bring you tidings of the four,"
         He said, "who left you for the fight."
    "God bless you, friend," she cried; "speak on!
    For I can bear it.    One is gone?"
    "Ay, one is gone!" he said.    "Which one?"
    "Dear lady, he, your eldest son."

    A deathly pallor shot across
         Her withered face; she did not weep.
    She said: "It is a grievous loss,
         But God gives His beloved sleep.
    What of the living - of the three?
    And when can they come back to me?"
    The soldier turned away his head:
    "Lady, your husband, too, is dead."

    She put her hand upon her brow;
         A wild, sharp pain was in her eyes.
    "My husband!    Oh, God, help me now!"
         The soldier heard her shuddering sighs.
    The task was harder than he thought.
    "Your youngest son, dear madam, fought
    Close at his father's side; both fell
    Dead, by the bursting of a shell."

    She moved her lips and seemed to moan.
         Her face had paled to ashen grey:
    "Then one is left me - one alone,"
         She said, "of four who marched away.
    Oh, overruling, All-wise God,
    How can I pass beneath Thy rod!"
    The soldier walked across the floor,
    Paused at the window, at the door,

    Wiped the cold dew-drops from his cheek
         And sought the mourner's side again.
    "Once more, dear lady, I must speak:
         Your last remaining son was slain
    Just at the closing of the fight;
    Twas he who sent me here to-night."
    "God knows," the man said afterward,
    "The fight itself was not so hard."

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Type of Poem: Narrative Poem

Date Written:

Date Published:

Language: English

Keywords: Public Domain

Source: Public Domain Collection

Publisher:

Rights/Permissions: Public Domain

Comments/Notes: This poem is a deeply poignant exploration of the devastating personal toll of war. The central theme revolves around a mother and wife's loss, as she learns about the fate of her four loved ones who went to war. The poet conveys this through a narrative structure, with an increasingly tragic tone as each piece of news is delivered.

The poem begins with a sense of foreboding in the quiet, empty house. The mother/wife's solitude is emphasized by the repeated references to her alone in the silence, her footsteps the only sound. The use of repetition serves to underscore the weight of her anxiety and expectation. As the soldier brings news of each fallen family member, the poem's rhythm mirrors the dreadful inevitability of the messages.

The poet also employs dialogue effectively to convey the tragedy. The conversation between the soldier and the woman is filled with suspense and heartbreak, creating a powerful emotionality. Furthermore, the poet's use of phrases such as "she did not weep" and her stoic acceptance of the losses emphasizes the crushing impact of the news.

The poem's conclusion, with the soldier's confession that delivering the news was harder than the battle itself, offers a profound commentary on the often overlooked emotional burdens of war. It leaves the reader with a deep sense of empathy for both the grieving woman and the soldier burdened with the task of delivering such devastating news. This poem serves as a poignant reminder of the personal and emotional cost of war, beyond the battlefield.