# Their Frailty

He’s got a Blighty wound. He’s safe; and then

War’s fine and bold and bright.

She can forget the doomed and prisoned men

Who agonize and fight.

He’s back in France. She loathes the listless strain

And peril of his plight.

Beseeching Heaven to send him home again,

She prays for peace each night.

Husbands and sons and lovers; everywhere

They die; War bleeds us white.

Mothers and wives and sweethearts,—they don’t care

So long as He’s all right.

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