The White Cliffs by Alice Duer Miller

Rabbits in the park, Scuttling as we pass, Little white tails Against the green grass. "Next time, Mother, I must really bring my gun, I know you don't like shooting, But . . ." John's own son. That blond bowed face, Those clear steady eyes, Hard to be certain That the dead don't rise. Jogging on his pony Through the autumn day, "Bad year for fruit, Mother, But good salt hay." Bowling for the village As his father had before; Coming home at evening To read the cricket score, Back to the old house Where all his race belong, Tired and contented-- Rosamund was wrong.