 | Women must weep |  |
PITY THE BABIES.
Pity the babies with only corruption to eat,
Pity the babies who swoon in the blistering heat;
Pity the babies all ashen from biting of frost,
Pity the babies who ever are tumbled and tost!
Ye whose beautiful shelves,
Are all golden with gain;
And who pity yourselves,
For a thorn-prick of pain!
Pity the babies who know not a moment of joy;
Pity the babies who never have handled a toy;
Pity the babies who cry,
And receive no reply!
Pity the babies who swoon in the blistering heat;
Pity the babies all ashen from biting of frost,
Pity the babies who ever are tumbled and tost!
Ye whose beautiful shelves,
Are all golden with gain;
69
For a thorn-prick of pain!
Pity the babies who know not a moment of joy;
Pity the babies who never have handled a toy;
Pity the babies who cry,
And receive no reply!
Pity the babies whose mothers their mothers are not;
Pity the babies whose life is one hideous blot;
Pity the babies in peril who hang on the brink;
Pity the babies who fall in the surges and sink!
Ye whose fortunes are thrown
In a world without fear;
And who pity your own,
If they shed but a tear!
Pity the babies who stretch out dim hands for your aid;
Pity the babies who pine and are always afraid;
Pity the helpless and weak,
That their wants cannot speak!
Pity the babies whose life is one hideous blot;
Pity the babies in peril who hang on the brink;
Pity the babies who fall in the surges and sink!
Ye whose fortunes are thrown
In a world without fear;
And who pity your own,
If they shed but a tear!
Pity the babies who stretch out dim hands for your aid;
Pity the babies who pine and are always afraid;
Pity the helpless and weak,
That their wants cannot speak!
Pity the babies who droop for the sweetness of air;
Pity the babies who, wash'd, would be winsome and fair;
Pity the babies who fade from the lacking of light;
Pity the babies who darken with creatures of night!
Ye whose tenderness takes
Lesser things in its bounds,
And who pity the aches
Of your horses and hounds!
Pity the babies whose day is a flickering breath;
Pity the babies who never know kindness but death;
Pity the babies whose lot
Is to bud and to rot!
Pity the babies who, wash'd, would be winsome and fair;
Pity the babies who fade from the lacking of light;
Pity the babies who darken with creatures of night!
Ye whose tenderness takes
Lesser things in its bounds,
And who pity the aches
Of your horses and hounds!
Pity the babies whose day is a flickering breath;
Pity the babies who never know kindness but death;
Pity the babies whose lot
Is to bud and to rot!
Pity the babies whose past has been nothing but grief;
Pity the babies whose present can give no relief;
Pity the babies whose fears for the future are worse;
Pity the babies whose portion seems only the curse!
Ye whose bitterest throes
Are from drawing-room gales,
And who pity the woes
Of mere puppets in tales.
Pity the babies who wither from lying and lust,
Pity the babies who fall away piecemeal to dust,
Pity the babies who weep
From their infinite deep!
Pity the babies whose present can give no relief;
Pity the babies whose fears for the future are worse;
Pity the babies whose portion seems only the curse!
Ye whose bitterest throes
70
And who pity the woes
Of mere puppets in tales.
Pity the babies who wither from lying and lust,
Pity the babies who fall away piecemeal to dust,
Pity the babies who weep
From their infinite deep!
| Women must weep | |