Mid The Piteous Heaps Of Dead

'MID the piteous heaps of dead Goes one weary golden head Tossing ever to and fro, Calling loud and calling low. Mother, mother, step so light, Mother, lay your fingers white On my forehead like a dew ! Mother, mother, where are you? Still so loud he makes his cry That the dying cannot die; All the writhing field's one groan While he lies and cries alone. But his mother's far away; Cannot hear him cry and say: Mother, I am dying, come! Mother, I am lost from home! Mary, Mother of all men, Come and comfort him in pain. Take his young head to the breast Where your Child and God had rest. Mary, Mary, step so light. Mary, lay your fingers white On his forehead! He shall dream That his mother comforts him. Mary, Mother, croon him o'er Lullabies you sang before! Mary, ease him, crooning low, In the way that mothers know!