 | A Child of the People |  |
149
II.
Ah me, what woes were yours, what tears you shed!
Still by sick dolls for ever would you sit;
The cat, quick-tempered Tom, would scratch and spit,
Because my sweet must take it still to bed.
Once real sorrow, may-be, when o'erhead
Voices were ever low and lights long lit:
The room where, with a coffin crowding it,
They showed the child a mother lying dead.
Still by sick dolls for ever would you sit;
The cat, quick-tempered Tom, would scratch and spit,
Because my sweet must take it still to bed.
Once real sorrow, may-be, when o'erhead
Voices were ever low and lights long lit:
The room where, with a coffin crowding it,
They showed the child a mother lying dead.
But you have grown and left these griefs behind
With Youth, who will not let his burdens last.
Since you will be a woman, you will find
That troubles never more will fade so fast.
O world who hath given her memories fair and kind,
Deal with her Future lightly as with her Past!
With Youth, who will not let his burdens last.
Since you will be a woman, you will find
That troubles never more will fade so fast.
O world who hath given her memories fair and kind,
Deal with her Future lightly as with her Past!
| A Child of the People | |