The White Cliffs by Alice Duer Miller

All that long winter I wanted so much to complain, But my mother-in-law, as far as I could see, Felt no such impulse, though she was always in pain, And, as the winter fogs grew thick, Took to walking with a stick, Heavily. Those bubble-like eyes grew black Whenever she rose from a chair-- Rose and fell back, Unable to bear The sure agonizing Torture of rising. Her hands, those competent bony hands, Grew gnarled and old, But never ceased to obey the commands Of her will--only finding new hold Of bandage and needle and pen. And not for the blinking Of an eye did she ever stop thinking Of the suffering of Englishmen, And her two sons in the trenches. Now and then I could forget for an instant in a book or a letter, But she never, never forgot--either one-- Percy and John--though I knew she loved one better-- Percy, the wastrel, the gambler, the eldest son. I think I shall always remember Until I die Her face that day in December, When in a hospital ward together, she and I Were writing letters for wounded men and dying, Writing and crying Over their words, so silly and simple and loving, Suddenly, looking up, I saw the old Vicar moving Like fate down the hospital ward, until He stood still Beside her, where she sat at a bed. "Dear friend, come home. I have tragic news, " he said. She looked straight at him without a spasm of fear, Her face not stern or masked-- "Is it Percy or John?" she asked. "Percy." She dropped her eyes. "I am needed here. Surely you know I cannot go Until every letter is written. The dead Must wait on the living, " she said. "This is my work. I must stay." And she did--the whole long day.