since the first poet picked up pen
they have cried out to end war
all it takes it to see a single face
a woman sitting by the winters window
with the light of candle to guide his way home
for naught...he has fallen to the tomb
on some forgotten field where noble ideal clashed
but she still awaits him
looking into the camera with such sorrows as to rend my heart
her delicate eyes looked out
at me from the photograph creased with
time and miles
she was a soldiers wife
she held the the candle by the winters window
light the way home for him

in thouse eyes you can see the echoes of dancin with joys
in hay of barnyard and the ashes of thouse sweet dreams now long past
you can smell the bread fresh baked sunday mornin' with loves hand
now gone cold in the dust of empty homes cupboard
in thouse tender eyes you can see the hope each of us
holds so dear to the heart fading away in darkness

in thouse gentle eyes you can hear the souls shuffling off to
meet one another in fairest fashion on the avenues of glory
if i could reach back through the passing of time
and hold this young woman's hand
comfort even in some small part
but i fear words fail me and my strength wanes
as i ponder the cost

if i could only tenderly take her hand
and give some measure of comfort
ease this burden
but time and miles has left a hundred years to the tale
and nothing yet has been learned
as today on the television a young man stretches
out his will on some foreign field  
to change his small world by force of arms
nothing yet has been learned