Fri., 6 Mr. Crighton comes to see me & makes a prayer. I am so glad he came. I like him because he is a good man. A box from Anna comes to-day.
THE TOLL OF WAR
The sunlight lies warm on the talking brook,
Where it runs o’er its bed of stone,
The breeze still whispers among the trees
Where I sit and dream alone.
We strolled away on a moolit path,
The brook was a silever thread;
It wound and wound thru the meadow grass,
We cared not where it led.
It talked and rippled and rushed away,
Away o’er its bed of stone;
The pain of parting was on our hearts,
Like nothing we had known.
A little breeze told our spoken plans
Where great trees listening stand,
They rustled and whispered above our heads
But we did not understand.
What they said to us that moonlit night
As we for the future planned;
The toll they knew that must be paid
Too well I understand.