He's got a Blighty wound. He’s safe; and then 
  War’s fine and bold and bright. 
She can forget the doomed and prisoned men 
  Who agonize and fight. 

He’s back in France. She loathes the listless strain
  And peril of his plight, 
Beseeching Heaven to send him home again, 
  She prays for peace each night. 

Husbands and sons and lovers; everywhere 
  They die; War bleeds us white
Mothers and wives and sweethearts,—they don’t care 
  So long as He’s all right.