Poem by Katharine Tynan

The Broken Soldier

The broken soldier sings and whistles day to dark;
    He's but the remnant of a man, maimed and half-blind,
But the soul they could not harm goes singing like the lark,
    Like the incarnate Joy that will not be confined.

The Lady at the Hall has given him a light task,
    He works in the gardens as busy as a bee;
One hand is but a stump and his face a pitted mask;
    The gay soul goes singing like a bird set free.

Whistling and singing like a linnet on wings;
    The others stop to listen, leaning on the spade,
Whole men and comely, they fret at little things.
    The soul of him's singing like a thrush in a glade.

Hither and thither, hopping, like Robin on the grass,
    The soul in the broken man is beautiful and brave;
And while he weeds the pansies and the bright hours pass
    The bird caught in the cage whistles its joyous stave.

1. Sheep and Lambs
2. Slow Spring
3. To the Others
4. Turn o' the Year
5. Distraction

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