my manling, while the long months ebbed away; He was part of me, part of my body, which nourished him day by day.  He was mine when the birth-pang tore me, mine when he lay on my heart, When the sweet mouth mumbled my bosom and the milk-teeth made it smart, Babyhood, boyhood, and manhood, and a glad mother proud of her son—­ See the carrion birds, too gorged to fly!  Ah!  Brothers, what have you
     done?

You prate of duty and honor, of a patriot’s glorious death,
Of love of country, heroic deeds—­nay, for shame’s sake, spare your
     breath! 
Pray, what have you done for your country?  Whose was the blood that was
     shed
In the hellish warfare that served your ends?  My boy was shot in your
     stead.

And for what were our children butchered, men makers of cruel law? 
By the Christ, I am glad no woman made the Christless code of war! 
Shirks and schemers, why don’t you answer?  Is the foul truth hard to
     tell? 
Then a mother will tell it for you, of a deed that shames fiends in
     hell:—­
Our boys were killed that some faction or scoundrel might win mad race
For goals of stained gold, shamed honors, and the sly self-seeker’s
     place;
That money’s hold on our country might be tightened and made more sure;
That the rich could inherit earth’s fullness and their loot be quite
     secure;
That the world-mart be wider opened to the product mulct from toil;
That the labor and land of our neighbors should become your war-won
     spoil;
That the eyes of an outraged people might be turned from your graft and
     greed
In the misruled, plundered home-land by lure of war’s ghastly deed;
And that priests of the warring nations could pray to the selfsame God
For His blessing on battle and murder and corpse-strewn, blood-soaked
     sod. 
Oh, fools! if God were a woman, think you She would let kin slay
For gold-lust and craft of gamesters, or cripple that trade might pay?

This quarrel was not the fighters’:—­the cheated, red pawns in your
     game:—­
You stay-at-homes garnered the plunder, but the pawns,—­wounds, death,
     and “Fame”! 
You paid them a beggarly pittance, your substitute prey-of-the-sword,
But, ye canny beasts of prey, they paid, in life and limb, for your
     hoard. 
And, behold! you have other victims:  a widow sobs by my side,
Who clasps to her breast a girl-child.  Men, she was my slain son’s
     bride!

I can smell the stench of the shambles, where the mangled bodies lie;
I can hear the moans of the wounded; I can see the brave lads die;
And across the heaped, red trenches and the tortured, bleeding rows
I cry out a mother’s pity to all mothers of dear, dead “foes.” 
In love and a common sorrow, I weep with them o’er our dead,
And invoke my sister woman for a curse on each scheming head.