The Unknown

I do not understand . . .
   They bring so many, many flowers to me--
Rainbows of roses, wreaths from every land;
   And hosts of solemn strangers come to see
My tomb here on these quiet, wooded heights.
   My tomb here seems to be
One of the sights.

The low-voiced men, who speak
   Of me quite fondly, call me "The Unknown":
But now and then at dusk, Madonna-meek,
   Bent, mournful mothers come to me alone
And whisper down--the flowers and grasses through--
   Such names as "Jim" and "John" . . .
I wish they knew.

And once my sweetheart came.
   She did not--nay, of course she could not--know,
But thought of me and crooned to me the name
   She called me by--how many years ago?
A very precious name. Her eyes were wet,
   Yet glowing, flaming so . . .
She won't forget.

                ~ E. O. Laughlin