The Woman At The Gate

"Where is your little boy to-day?"
  I asked her at the gate.
"I used to see him at his play,
  And often I would wait:
He was so beautiful, so bright,
  I watched him with delight.
"He had a tiny motor-car
  And it was painted red;
He wound it up; it ran so far,
  So merrily it sped.
I think he told me that it was
  A gift from Santa Claus."

The woman said: "It ran so far
  He followed it with joy.
Then came a real motor-car,--
  He sought to save his toy . . .
My little boy is far away
  Where angel children play.

"His father perished in the War;
  Now I am all alone,
And death is all I'm longing for . . ."
  So said with face of stone
That woman. "Curse their crazy cars
  And cruel wars!"