God grant one letter from home today.
The days are long and the blood-hate
Leaves me weary when the fighting's done.
My soul is sick with the agony
Of it all and the heart cries for news
Of those at home. I try to deny
My doubt, but ever the same thoughts rise
And it seems you have forgotten me.
This is not faith as it should be,
I know; but loneliness can eat up
The mind, the heart, the soul, and leave
Only the nagging, throbbing pain. So
Are these days a void of torment
Deeper than you could ever know.
The mail came. And out in the shuffling
Sand men sit apart drinking the news
Of those at home. Now I am sure
Once more you have forgotten me –
There was no letter from home.
Shawn O'Leary (1941)