War
Time
By
Mary E. Fullerton
Young John, the postman, day by day,
In sunshine or in rain,
Comes down our road with words of doom
In envelopes of pain.
In sunshine or in rain,
Comes down our road with words of doom
In envelopes of pain.
What cares he as he swings along
At his mechanic part,
How many times his hand lets fall
The knocker on a heart?
At his mechanic part,
How many times his hand lets fall
The knocker on a heart?
He whistles merry scraps of song,
What'er his bag contain—
Of words of death, of words of doom
In envelopes of pain.
What'er his bag contain—
Of words of death, of words of doom
In envelopes of pain.
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