Classic Poem

Surely I needed thee the most of all,—
Thy heart on which to call.
And now thou art dead,—thou art dead,—
On me most weak this heaviest blow must fall.

There could not be beneath the blue calm sky
One mother-needing spirit such as I,—
And yet thou art dead,
Thou turn'st not back for groan or prayer or cry.

I needed thee,—and yet a million more
Are motherless as well:
Vast is pain's iron hell;
Millions have watched at death's relentless door.

And now I join the army robed in grief
Whom from afar I've seen:
What sorrow's depth may mean
They tell me,—none can point me to relief.