Poems (Jackson)/My Days
MY DAYS.
VEILED priestess, in a holy place,Day pauseth on her threshold, beckoning;As infants to the mother's bosom springAt sound of mother's voice, although her faceBe hid, I leap with sudden joy. No traceOf fear I feel; I take her hand and flingHer arm around my neck, and walk and clingClose to her side. She chooses road and pace;I feast along the way on her shewbread;I help an hour or two on her great task; Beyond this honoring, no wage I ask.Then, ere I know, sweet night slips in her stead,And, while by sunset fires I rest and bask,Warm to her faithful breast she folds my head.