A Box From Home
By Helen Cowles LeCron
I’ll send to you in France, my dear,
A box with treasures in it:
The patch of sky that meets our hill
And changes every minute,
The grape-vine that you taught to grow—
My pansies young with dew,
The plum-tree by the kitchen door—
These things I’ll send to you.
I’ll pack with care our fragile dawn—
The dawn we laughed to greet;
I’ll send the comfort of the grass
That once caressed your feet.
No yearning love of mine I’ll send
To tear your heart in two—
Just earth-peace—home-peace—still and strong—
These things I’ll send to you.
For you must tire of flags, and guns,
And courage high, and pain,
And long to rest your heart upon
The common things again,
And so I’ll send no prayers, no tears,
No longings—only dew
And garden-rows, and goldenrod
And country roads to you!
Since life has given you to know
The gentle tenderness
Of growing things, I cannot think
That death would give you less!
Hold fast, hold fast within your heart
The earth-sweet hours we knew,
And keep, my dear, where’er you are
These things I send to you.