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Robert W Service - The Locket
Work rating: Medium

From out her shabby rain-coat pocket
The little Jew girl in the train
Produced a dinted silver locket
With pasted in it portraits twain.
"These are my parents, sir" she said;
"Or were, for now I fear they`re dead.

"I know to Belsen they were sent;
I never heard of them again.
So many were like that - they went,
Our woeful quest was all in vain.
I was in London with a friend,
Or I, too, would have shared their end.

"They could have got away, I`m told,
And joined me here in Marylebne,
But Grannie was so sick and old,
They could not leave her there alone.
When they were seized she cried and cried:
Thank God! `Twas in her bed she died.

"How did they die? I cannot bear
To think of that - it crazes me.
My mother was so sweet, so fair;
My father handsome as you see . . .
I`m sure no daughter ever had
More lovely parents . . . Yes, it`s sad.

"But for their loss I shall not grieve;
I`ll hug the hope they still survive;
Oh, I must make myself believe
Somehow, somewhere they`re still alive. . . .

"Well, that`s my only souvenir,
A locket stained with many a tear."
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