Women must weep :: :: University of Virginia Library

In a London alley, lone and loveless,
Where never a breeze had blown,
Lay a nest, and it was dark and doveless,
For the mother-bird had flown.
And there was a sound of weeping, weeping,
From half-fledged and unfledged things,
With a faint and feeble cheeping, cheeping,
For they miss'd the mother's wings.

Lo! the fowler spread his nets of pleasures,
And the foolish bird was snared,
To return no more to her tender treasures,
From the lust that nothing spared.
And the shades of want kept creeping, creeping,
With its curse through the flutter'd nest;
And the winds outside were sweeping, sweeping,
As the scourges of unrest.

And the father, like a wreck of iron,
Stood on the stony floor,
He could face all foes that might environ,—
He was fearless, even if poor.
When the children still were sleeping, sleeping,
He could fill the empty purse,
While the night-long watches keeping, keeping;
But he could not toil and nurse.

And the hungry nurslings, round him huddled,
Were to him like prison-bands;
To the mother-breast they should be cuddled,
With the clasp of mother-hands.

And his boding heart kept leaping, leaping,
At the want he could not fight,
Like a painter who is steeping, steeping
His brush in the gloom of night.

He had loved her with the mighty yearnings,
Of a soul that loves but one;
And for years he had laid his life's hard earnings
At her feet, when the toil was done.
And a store he had been heaping, heaping,
That his children might have some;
If there yet might be a reaping, reaping,
For the rainy days to come.

And his fount was one—for he was simple,
It had ever quenched his thirst;
He had fondled still the red rose dimple,
As he fondled it at first.
And a misty star came peeping, peeping,
With a beam that coyly stept,
In the room where hope was sleeping, sleeping,
Till the strong man bowed and wept.

In a London alley, lean and haggard,
With the splash of sooty rains,
Where the sun was late, and the moon a laggard,
And the very stars look'd stains,
There were nestlings who were weeping, weeping,
In the lone, unmothered nest,
With the starved and strainèd cheeping, cheeping
Of the cry that cannot rest.

They were faint for food, and white and weary,—
They had none for many a day;
While the hours were crawling, dim and dreary,
They had wept their tears away.
And the grave-like cold came creeping, creeping,
Into the hopeless room,
And its bitter breath went sweeping, sweeping,
Like the breath itself of doom.

And their eyes were wild, like creatures hunted
With the hounds upon their track;
And the tender plants look'd sad and stunted,
For the love that turn'd not back.
But the hunger knew no sleeping, sleeping,
Though their frames were tired and spent;
And its pangs their guard were keeping, keeping,
But they came and never went.

Then the strong man, trembling, took them kindly,
To the shelter of his arms;
And his rough hand feeling, fondly, blindly,
Grew soft with their soft charms.
And his great heart still went leaping, leaping,
Like a steed that fain would go;
Though the night his thoughts kept steeping, steeping,
In the hues of want and woe.

But the pretty darlings pined and sicken'd,
As they clung to him in vain;
And the cruel darkness round him thicken'd,
But darker was his pain.
Though the rich their gold were heaping, heaping,
And the cup o'erflow'd its brim;
Though all were something reaping, reaping,
No gleanings fell for him.

And into an angel grew the baby,
For it spread its wings and flew;
And the rest soon follow'd it, and, maybe,
It was God's own hand that drew.
And the morning light came peeping, peeping,
Into those windows lorn;
But it found them all fast sleeping, sleeping,
In the sleep that has no morn.