A Box From Home

By Helen Cowles LeCron

I'll send to you in France, my dear,

A box with treasures in it:

The patch of sky that meets our hill

And changes every minute,

The grape-vine that you taught to grow—

My pansies young with dew,

The plum-tree by the kitchen door—

These things I'll send to you.

I'll pack with care our fragile dawn—

The dawn we laughed to greet;

I'll send the comfort of the grass

That once caressed your feet.

No yearning love of mine I'll send

To tear your heart in two—

Just earth-peace—home-peace—still and strong—

These things I'll send to you.

For you must tire of flags, and guns,

And courage high, and pain,

And long to rest your heart upon

The common things again,

And so I'll send no prayers, no tears,

No longings—only dew

And garden-rows, and goldenrod

And country roads to you!

Since life has given you to know

The gentle tenderness

Of growing things, I cannot think

That death would give you less!

Hold fast, hold fast within your heart

The earth-sweet hours we knew,

And keep, my dear, where'er you are

These things I send to you.