Step Lightly Night

Shine softly, stars, above him where he lies--

My youthful son--somewhere beneath strange ebon skies

Dreaming of home and cricket lullabies--

                       Shine softly.

Blow gently, winds, and give him my embrace,

And let your cooling breath caress his boyish face

As he lies sleeping in some alien place--

                       Blow gently.

Step lightly, night, and mute the strange alarms

Of war, lest he be wakened rudely from the charms

Of dreams. O, hold him close within your arms--

                       Step lightly.

Walk softly, angels, pause beside his bed;

Placing your hands in tenderness upon his head,

Smooth his dark hair, and kiss him in my stead--

                       Walk softly.

Smiling He Comes

Sometimes when night's

Ethereal essence fills the silent air

And moonlight softly drapes her silvery cloak

Of gossamer about the sleeping earth,

Concealing all its scars, my mother-soul,

Filled with nostalgic yearning for that boy

Who left us in the pulsing dawn of youth,

Steps from its chrysalis of earthly flesh

And moves across a star-strung bridge of dreams.

Smiling he comes

Through portals hung with golden tapestry.

I take him gently in my hungry arms,

Caress his boyish face, his curling hair.

My first born son! The marks of death are gone:

The twisted foot is straightened, hands made whole;

The bruised flesh is restored ... No mortal wound

Upon his head ... He tells me of his dreams

And of his joy within the Master's kingdom.

There is no war.

This living son of mine! He is not dead!

For death is but the gateway into life

And happiness in God's own Empery.

Slowly the portals close. My lightened feet

Traverse again my star-strung bridge of dreams;

My soul accepts its temple. Comforted,

I walk all unafraid to meet the dawn.

Singing Pens

Monument

No monument of stone
Will ever laud my name,
And I shall come and go my way unknown
To the halls or books of fame;

Yet I shall be content
If when my day is done
And night comes on, I leave this monument:
A clean and valiant son.


The Relief Society Magazine

Monument

You may never find in stone,
Find in halls of fame
A memorial to me
That will laud my name.
Yet when I must journey Home,
I shall feel no sorrow
If I leave a valiant son
For the new tomorrow.
I shall know supreme content
If I leave this monument.

He Will Be Waiting You

The son God loaned you for a few short years
To love and cherish while on earth he trod
Is living still, so dry your anguished tears
Saying, "Thy will be done," nor question God
Who in His love and wisdom called him Home.
Could you but lift the veiling you would see
Him with the chosen ones on Heavenly loam
Walking through meadows of Eternity
Caressing the white lilies, with his hand
In that of Jesus, seeking lambs that stray
In fields of Paradise ... There in that land
When you are called at closing of your day,
He will be waiting you ... This truth will bless,
So let your tears be prayers of thankfulness.

To My Son (Leaving for Korea)

O pilot now your ship of days or years
Unerringly to reach a promised goal.
The Master Helmsman will allay your fears
And still the tempests that would scar your soul.
You leave the haven of a citadel
Which greed would now destroy; so let a song
Rise from your heard that you may break the spell
Of avarice that moves a Judas-throng.
Wearing white armor, go and give release;
Brave terror's henchmen on the death-strewn plain;
Bid earth to sing a canticle of peace,
Become a sanctuary--love's domain.
Your shield is youth's clean strength which you have won--
God's arm is long to reach to you, my son.

The Improvement Era

We Dare Have a Son

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.

To My Son

I've watched you grow--beyond me--son.
The shield of manhood won,
Emblazon now
Your vow
To climb
The Mount of time
Where you may know and view
The Sire of the immortal you.

The American Bard
Second in Pendulum contest