the sonnet-ballad

    Oh mother， mother， where is happiness？

    They took my lover's tallness off to war，

    Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess

    What I can use an empty heart-cup for.

    He won't be coming back here any more.

    Some day the war will end， but， oh， I knew

    When he went walking grandly out that door

    That my sweet love would have to be untrue.

    Would have to be untrue. Would have to court

    Coquettish death， whose impudent and strange

    Possessive arms and beauty （of a sort）

    Can make a hard man hesitate——and change.

    And he will be the one to stammer， "Yes."

    Oh mother， mother， where is happiness？