And what of the women of Britain, I thought, as I surveyed those fields of death where thousands of dead heroes lay under the grass and wild flowers growing there now.
Wept over, prayed over, longed for with breaking hearts, with sorrow known only to God. Sorrow bravely borne, but sorrow still. The end of the War has come, but the empty chairs will never be filled, and there is no Christmas welcome home for many a dear one now; the bright smile that lit the home will never be seen on earth again, and the loving tones that made life’s music for our hearts is stilled in the silence of eternity.
“Now his home is sorrow-haunted,
Love beholds him everywhere;
Sees him bounding up the pathway,
Hears his footstep on the stair.”