The poem
"Where is your little boy to-day?" I asked her at the gate. "I used to see him at his play, And often I would wait: He was so beautiful, so bright, I watched him with delight.
"He had a tiny motor-car And it was painted red; He wound it up; it ran so far, So merrily it sped. I think he told me that it was A gift from Santa Claus."
The woman said: "It ran so far He followed it with joy. Then came a real motor-car,-- He sought to save his toy . . . My little boy is far away Where angel children play.
"His father perished in the War; Now I am all alone, And death is all I'm longing for . . ." So said with face of stone That woman. "Curse their crazy cars And cruel wars!"