Henry Newbolt

The Only Son

O Bitter wind toward the sunset blowing,
  What of the dales to-night?
In yonder gray old hall what fires are glowing,
  What ring of festal light?

    "In the great window as the day was dwindling
      I saw an old man stand;
    His head was proudly held and his eyes kindling,
      But the list shook in his hand."

O wind of twilight, was there no word uttered,
  No sound of joy or wail?
"'A great fight and a good death,' he muttered;
  'Trust him, he would not fail.'"

What of the chamber dark where she was lying;
  For whom all life is done?
"Within her heart she rocks a dead child, crying
  'My son, my ltttle son.'"