A poem

I think there are two aprons at home that I can hem;
I can put a frill of lace for edge to one of them;
I will have blue ribbon to tie it, and to sew
Just above the pocket in a flaring bow;
And I can sit quite quiet, as if nothing had been
Except the needle’s in and out and out and in—
(Every sorrow ends—every horror ends—
Every terror ends that we have to face or do—
These hours will end, too

Back where I live there still are green things to see—
Lilacs and a rose-bush and a tall old apple tree;
Everything is quiet there—everything will stay
Steady till I come to it as when I went away.
I must remember them, think hard of them, my flowers,
And village folks not caring, and the yellow morning hours—
(Everything ends that begins beneath the sun—
There will be kind hours after these hours are done—
How slow, how slow they run!

All of it will surely stop to-night at least by ten,
And I may be too numb to feel a while before then—
And maybe, if I seem too tired or too like to weep,
They’ll give me something merciful to let me get to sleep,
And drop inert and shut my eyes and count, as I lie still,
Sheep slipping through a gap and running down a hill—
(Lord, once you saw it through, the waiting and the fright,
And being brave for them to see, as if it all was right—
Send me quick—send quick to-night!