My dear, your letter said,
"When I return, if we dare have a son ..."
Darling, believe me, we shall bravely dare.
I hear you saying, "But she does not know:
She has not seen the fiendish face of war.
Still in the swaddling clothes of innocence,
And cradled in the arms of apathy,
How can she know?" My answer is, I know.
I know the curse of war.
But this I also know: that we who toil
Unceasingly for peace, and toiling, glimpse
With prophet-eyes, the glory of the dawn
After the long, dark, anguished night; who view
The Holy City rising tier on tier,
The last one touching Heaven--we must bear
And nurture sons for peace. Our sons, my dear,
With sons of those who likewise toil and see,
Will build and grace the new imperium
Whose soul is love; where every race and creed
Will meet as brothers, and will drink the wine
Of deep compassion, and partake the bread
Broken by Him whose hands are scarred, whose lips
Will speak the code to close Gethsemane--
So smile my darling, we dare have a son.
