 | The new minnesinger and other poems |  |
47
A MOTHER.
(AFTER THE BIRTH OF HER STILL-BORN SON.)
They call me a mother, but cold
Are the chrism lips of my child:
On him was the pow'r bestow'd,
The sinless, the undefil'd,
Are the chrism lips of my child:
On him was the pow'r bestow'd,
The sinless, the undefil'd,
To make me that name, whose sound
Is an empty title now:
I sit as a queen uncrown'd;
And yet to this sunless brow,
Is an empty title now:
I sit as a queen uncrown'd;
And yet to this sunless brow,
Bereft of its bridal light,
With sorrow all bowèd down,
He giveth the royal right
To womanhood's glory crown.
With sorrow all bowèd down,
He giveth the royal right
To womanhood's glory crown.
48
I miss him, I know not where
He hath no place to be miss'd;
This one little lock of hair,
From the brow I have not kiss'd,
He hath no place to be miss'd;
This one little lock of hair,
From the brow I have not kiss'd,
But tells me it all is true—
This bliss that hath never been:
Brown hair! did it match the hue
Of those eyes I have not seen?
This bliss that hath never been:
Brown hair! did it match the hue
Of those eyes I have not seen?
In my life he had no part,
Yet now hath left me alone;
The very font of my heart
Baptis'd him my child, my own.
Yet now hath left me alone;
The very font of my heart
Baptis'd him my child, my own.
And I am his chosen still,
For me are the child-like eyes;
His want 'tis my wealth must fill;
To my heart his heart replies.
For me are the child-like eyes;
His want 'tis my wealth must fill;
To my heart his heart replies.
The secret soft-falling touch,
The want-earned pleasure and pain,
Ah we two had learn'd so much
If in my arms he had lain!
The want-earned pleasure and pain,
Ah we two had learn'd so much
If in my arms he had lain!
49
I shall not cradle him so;
These arms will never enfold;
My unspent passion will grow,
Like my baby, dead and cold.
These arms will never enfold;
My unspent passion will grow,
Like my baby, dead and cold.
Nay, both of us now must miss
A love each keepeth in store,
Till God sets us free to kiss
And the precious nard outpour.
A love each keepeth in store,
Till God sets us free to kiss
And the precious nard outpour.
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