 | Potiphar's Wife and Other Poems |  |
95
MOTHERS.
(A Dialogue at Boston, Mass., U.S.A.)
“See there,” he said, “my fair American!
Yon noisy child
I'd like to choke, being but ‘brutal man;’
That Mother mild
Yon noisy child
I'd like to choke, being but ‘brutal man;’
That Mother mild
“Takes all its howls for music, comforts it
With song and kiss:
And gives it, at the loudest of its fit,
Her milky bliss.
With song and kiss:
And gives it, at the loudest of its fit,
Her milky bliss.
And there again,—yon little lambkin bleating,
Made for mint-sauce:
At its first cry the Ewe quits clover-eating
And runs, perforce.
Made for mint-sauce:
At its first cry the Ewe quits clover-eating
And runs, perforce.
96
And yet again, that purple-winged hen-starling,
Hungry—I'll vouch it!
Flies with a fat grub to her nested darling,
Nor dreams to pouch it!
Hungry—I'll vouch it!
Flies with a fat grub to her nested darling,
Nor dreams to pouch it!
She-mercy everywhere, she-pitying
In helpless season!
You Boston girls seem up to everything:
Tell me the reason.”
In helpless season!
You Boston girls seem up to everything:
Tell me the reason.”
“Why, certainly!” she smiled, “don't poets know
Better than others?
God can't be always everywhere: and, so,
Invented Mothers.”
Better than others?
God can't be always everywhere: and, so,
Invented Mothers.”
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