MOTHERHOOD
The night throbs on: but let me pray, dear Lord!
Crush off his name a moment from my mouth.
To thee my eyes would turn, but they go back,
Back to my arm beside me where he lay—
So little, Lord, so little and so warm!
Crush off his name a moment from my mouth.
To thee my eyes would turn, but they go back,
Back to my arm beside me where he lay—
So little, Lord, so little and so warm!
I cannot think that thou hadst need of him!
He is so little, Lord, he cannot sing,
He cannot praise thee; all his lips had learned
Was to hold fast my kisses in the night.
He is so little, Lord, he cannot sing,
He cannot praise thee; all his lips had learned
Was to hold fast my kisses in the night.
Give him to me—he is not happy there!
He had not felt his life: his lovely eyes
Just knew me for his mother, and he died.
He had not felt his life: his lovely eyes
Just knew me for his mother, and he died.
Hast thou an angel there to mother him?
I say he loves me best—if he forgets,
If thou allow it that my child forgets
And runs not out to meet me when I come—
I say he loves me best—if he forgets,
If thou allow it that my child forgets
And runs not out to meet me when I come—
What are my curses to thee? Thou hast heard
The curse of Abel's mother, and since then
We have not ceased to threaten at thy throne,
To threat and pray thee that thou hold them still
In memory of us.
The curse of Abel's mother, and since then
We have not ceased to threaten at thy throne,
To threat and pray thee that thou hold them still
In memory of us.
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