Poems for Mom

With the milk teeth of babes, and a smile at the pain? Ah, boys, how you hurt! you were strong as you pressed, And I proud by that test.

What art's for a woman! To hold on her knees Both darlings! to feel all their arms round her throatCling, struggle a little! to sew by degrees And 'broider the long-clothes and neat little coat! To dream and to dote.

To teach them ... It stings there. I made them indeed Speak plain the word "country," I taught them, no doubt,That a country's a thing men should die for at need. I prated of liberty, rights, and about The tyrant turned out.

And when their eyes flashed ... O my beautiful eyes! ... I exulted! nay, let them go forth at the wheelsOf the guns, and denied not.--But then the surprise, When one sits quite alone!--Then one weeps, then one kneels! --God! how the house feels!

At first happy news came, in gay letters moiled With my kisses, of camp-life and glory, and howThey both loved me, and soon, coming home to be spoiled, In return would fan off every fly from my brow With their green laurel-bough.

Then was triumph at Turin. "Ancona was free!" And some one came out of the cheers in the streetWith a face pale as stone, to say something to me.--My Guido was dead!--I fell down at his feet, While they cheered in the street.

I bore it;--friends soothed me: my grief looked sublime As the ransom of Italy. One boy remainedTo be leant on and walked with, recalling the time When the first grew immortal, while both of us strained To the height he had gained.

And letters still came,--shorter, sadder, more strong, Writ now but in one hand. "I was not to faint.One loved me for two ... would be with me ere-long: And 'Viva Italia' he died for, our saint, Who forbids our complaint."

My Nanni would add "he was safe, and aware Of a presence that turned off the balls ... was imprestIt was Guido himself, who knew what I could bear, And how 't was impossible, quite dispossessed, To live on for the rest."

On which without pause up the telegraph line Swept smoothly the next news from Gaeta:--"Shot.Tell his mother." Ah, ah, "his," "their" mother; not "mine." No voice says "my mother" again to me. What! You think Guido forgot?

Are souls straight so happy that, dizzy with heaven, They drop earth's affections, conceive not of woe?I think not. Themselves were too lately forgiven Through that love and sorrow which reconciled so The above and below.

O Christ of the seven wounds, who look'dst through the dark To the face of thy mother! consider, I pray.How we common mothers stand desolate, mark, Whose sons, not being Christs, die with eyes turned away, And no last word to say!

Both boys dead! but that's out of nature. We all Have been patriots, yet each house must always keep one.'T were imbecile hewing out roads to a wall. And when Italy's made, for what end is it done If we have not a son?

Ah, ah, ah! when Gaeta's taken, what then? When the fair wicked queen sits no more at her sportOf the fire-balls of death crashing souls out of men? When your guns at Cavalli with final retort Have cut the game short,--

When Venice and Rome keep their new jubilee, When your flag takes all heaven for its white, green, and red,When you have your country from mountain to sea, When King Victor has Italy's crown on his head, (And I have my dead,)

What then? Do not mock me. Ah, ring your bells low, And burn your lights faintly!--My country is there,Above the star pricked by the last peak of snow, My Italy's there,--with my brave civic pair, To disfranchise despair.

Forgive me. Some women bear children in strength, And bite back the cry of their pain in self-scorn.But the birth-pangs of nations will wring us at length Into such wail as this!--and we sit on forlorn When the man-child is born.

Dead! one of them shot by the sea in the west, And one of them shot in the east by the sea!Both! both my boys!--If in keeping the feast You want a great song for your Italy free, Let none look at me!

No marshaling troup, no bivouac song, No banner to gleam or wave,But oh, these battles, they last so long-- From babyhood to the grave.

Yet, faithful as a bridge of stars, She fights in her walled-up town--Fights on and on in the endless wars, Then, silent, unseen, goes down.

Oh, ye with banner and battle shot, And soldiers to shout and praisesI tell you the kingliest victories fought Were fought in those silent ways.

Oh, spotless in a world of shame, With splendid and silent scorn,Go back to God as white as you came-- The kingliest warrior born!

Nor flung, all eager to escape,One glance upon the perfect shape,That lay, still warm and fresh and fair,But motionless and soundless there.No human eye had marked her passAcross the linden-shadowed grassEre yet the minster clock chimed seven:Only the innocent birds of heaven--The magpie, and the rook whose nestSwings as the elm-tree waves his crest--And the lithe cricket, and the hoarAnd huge-limbed hound that guards the door,Looked on when, as a summer windThat, passing, leaves no trace behind,All unapparelled, barefoot all,She ran to that old ruined wall,To leave upon the chill dank earth(For ah! she never knew its worth),Mid hemlock rank, and fern and ling,And dews of night, that precious thing!And then it might have lain forlornFrom morn to eve, from eve to morn:But, that, by some wild impulse led,The mother, ere she turned and fled,One moment stood erect and high;Then poured into the silent skyA cry so jubilant, so strange,That Alice--as she strove to rangeHer rebel ringlets at her glass--Sprang up and gazed across the grass;Shook back those curls so fair to see,Clapped her soft hands in childish glee;And shrieked--her sweet face all aglow, Her very limbs with rapture shaking--"My hen has laid an egg, I know; And only hear the noise she's making!"

If some tender mother, whose babe on earth is living,Takes his little hand to guide his stranger feet'Mid the countless hosts that cross the floor of heaven,Thou wilt not reprove her for Thy pity sweet.

If upon her breast she holds his baby beauty,All his golden hair will fall about her hand,Laughing let her fingers pull it into ringlets--Long and lovely ringlets. She will understand.

Wilful are his ways and full of merry mischief;If he prove unruly, lay the blame on me.Never did I chide him for his noise or riot,Smiled upon his folly, glad his joy to see.

Each eve shall I come beside his bed so lowly;"Hush-a-by, my baby," softly shall I sing,So, if he be frightened, full of sleep and anger,The song he loved shall reach him and sure comfort bring.

Lord, if in my praying, Thou shouldst hear me weeping,Ever was I wayward, always full of tears,Take no heed of this grief. Sweet the gift Thou gavestAll the cherished treasure of those golden years.

Do not, therefore, hold me to Thy will ungrateful:Soon I shall stand upright, smiling, strong, and brave,With a son in heaven the sad earth forgetting,But 'tis lonely yet, Lord, by the little grave.Oh, 'tis lonely, lonely, by the little grave!

And now it seems surpassing strange to meThat, while I wore the badge of motherhood,I did not kiss more oft and tenderlyThe little child that brought me only good.

And if some night when you sit down to rest,You miss this elbow from your tired knee,--This restless, curling head from off your breast--This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;If the white feet into, their grave had tripped,I could not blame you for your heartache then!

I wonder so that mothers ever fretAt little children clinging to their gown;Or that the footprints, when the days are wet,Are ever black enough to make them frown.If I could find a little muddy boot,Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber-floor,--If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,And hear its patter in my house once more,--

If I could mend a broken cart to-day,To-morrow make a kite to reach the sky,There is no woman in God's world could sayShe was more blissfully content than I.But ah! the dainty pillow next my ownIs never rumpled by a shining head;My singing birdling from its nest has flown,The little boy I used to kiss is dead.

Show me how the spider's loomWeaves the fabric from her womb,--Lead me to those brooks of mornWhere a woman's laugh is born,--Let me taste the sap that flowsThrough the blushes of a rose,Yea, and drain the blood which runsFrom the heart of dying suns,--Teach me how the butterflyGuessed at immortality,--Let me follow up the trackOf Love's deathless ZodiacWhere Joy climbs among the spheresCircled by her moon of tears,--Tell me how, when I forgetAll the schools have taught me, yetI recall each trivial thingIn a golden far off Spring,--Give me whispered hints how IMay instruct my heart to flyWhere the baffling Vision gleamsTill I overtake my dreams,And the impossible be doneWhen the Wish and Deed grow one!

There's not a boat upon the sea,Can dance as baby does to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

No silk was ever spun so fineAs is the hair of baby mine.My baby smells more sweet to meThan smells in spring the elder tree.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

A little fish swims in the well,So in my heart does baby dwell.A little flower blows on the tree,My baby is the flower to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

The Queen has sceptre, crown and ball,You are my sceptre, crown and all.For all her robes of royal silk,More fair your skin, as white as milk.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

Ten thousand parks where deer do run,Ten thousand roses in the sun,Ten thousand pearls beneath the sea,My babe more precious is to me.And it's O! sweet, sweet! and a lullaby.

'Oh don't let no one trouble for a poor old ghost like me!'

'Twas all a warm September an' the hops had flourished grand,She saw the folks get into 'em with stockin's on their hands;An' none of 'em was foreigners but all which she had known,And old Mother Laidinwool she blessed 'em every one.

She saw her daughters picking, an' their children them beside,An' she moved among the babies an' she stilled 'em when they cried.She saw their clothes was bought, not begged, an' they was clean an' fat,An' old Mother Laidinwool she thanked the Lord for that.

Old Mother Laidinwool she waited on all dayUntil it come too dark to see an' people went away--Until it come too dark to see an' lights began to show,An' old Mother Laidinwool she hadn't where to go.

Old Mother Laidinwool she give her bones a shake,An' trotted back to churchyard-mould as fast as she could make.She went where she was bidden to an' there laid down her ghost, ...An' the Lord have mercy on you in the Day you need it most!

Let me in again, Out of the wet an' rain, Lord! Out of the dark an rain, Lord! For it's best as you shall say, My Lord! An' it's best as you shall say!

And, heeding, it awed me to gather That Nature herself thereWas breathing in aërie accents, With dirgeful refrain,

Weary plaint that Mankind, in these late days, Had grieved her by holdingHer ancient high fame of perfection In doubt and disdain . . .

—“I had not proposed me a Creature (She soughed) so excellingAll else of my kingdom in compass And brightness of brain

“As to read my defects with a god-glance, Uncover each vestigeOf old inadvertence, annunciate Each flaw and each stain!

“My purpose went not to develop Such insight in Earthland;Such potent appraisements affront me, And sadden my reign!

“Why loosened I olden control here To mechanize skywards,Undeeming great scope could outshape in A globe of such grain?

“Man’s mountings of mind-sight I checked not, Till range of his visionHas topped my intent, and found blemish Throughout my domain.

“He holds as inept his own soul-shell— My deftest achievement—Contemns me for fitful inventions Ill-timed and inane:

“No more sees my sun as a Sanct-shape, My moon as the Night-queen,My stars as august and sublime ones That influences rain:

“Reckons gross and ignoble my teaching, Immoral my story,My love-lights a lure, that my species May gather and gain.

“‘Give me,’ he has said, ‘but the matter And means the gods lot her,My brain could evolve a creation More seemly, more sane.’

—“If ever a naughtiness seized me To woo adulationFrom creatures more keen than those crude ones That first formed my train—

“If inly a moment I murmured, ‘The simple praise sweetly,But sweetlier the sage’—and did rashly Man’s vision unrein,

“I rue it! . . . His guileless forerunners, Whose brains I could blandish,To measure the deeps of my mysteries Applied them in vain.

“From them my waste aimings and futile I subtly could cover;‘Every best thing,’ said they, ‘to best purpose Her powers preordain.’—

“No more such! . . . My species are dwindling, My forests grow barren,My popinjays fail from their tappings, My larks from their strain.

“My leopardine beauties are rarer, My tusky ones vanish,My children have aped mine own slaughters To quicken my wane.

“Let me grow, then, but mildews and mandrakes, And slimy distortions,Let nevermore things good and lovely To me appertain;

“For Reason is rank in my temples, And Vision unruly,And chivalrous laud of my cunning Is heard not again!”

wind is free;White and gaunt, with wistful eyes that hoverAlways on the distance, as if his soul were chauntingThe monotonous weird of departure away from me.

Like a strange white bird blown out of the frozen seas,Like a bird from the far north blown with a broken wingInto our sooty garden, he drags and beatsFrom place to place perpetually, seeking releaseFrom me, from the hand of my love which creeps up, needingHis happiness, whilst he in displeasure retreats.

I must look away from him, for my faded eyesLike a cringing dog at his heels offend him now,Like a toothless hound pursuing him with my will,Till he chafes at my crouching persistence, and a sharp spark fliesIn my soul from under the sudden frown of his brow,As he blenches and turns away, and my heart stands still.

This is the last, it will not be any more.All my life I have borne the burden of myself,All the long years of sitting in my husband's house,Never have I said to myself as he closed the door:"Now I am caught!--You are hopelessly lost, O Self,You are frightened with joy, my heart, like a frightened mouse."

Three times have I offered myself, three times rejected.It will not be any more. No more, my son, my son!Never to know the glad freedom of obedience, since long agoThe angel of childhood kissed me and went. I expectedAnother would take me,--and now, my son, O my son,I must sit awhile and wait, and never knowThe loss of myself, till death comes, who cannot fail.

Death, in whose service is nothing of gladness, takes me;For the lips and the eyes of God are behind a veil.And the thought of the lipless voice of the Father shakes meWith fear, and fills my eyes with the tears of desire,And my heart rebels with anguish as night draws nigher,

And so, my love, my mother,I shall always be true to you;Twice I am born, my dearest,To life, and to death, in you;And this is the life hereafterWherein I am true.

I kiss you good-bye, my darling,Our ways are different now;You are a seed in the night-time,I am a man, to ploughThe difficult glebe of the futureFor God to endow.

I kiss you good-bye, my dearest,It is finished between us here.Oh, if I were calm as you are,Sweet and still on your bier!God, if I had not to leave youAlone, my dear!

Let the last word be uttered,Oh grant the farewell is said!Spare me the strength to leave youNow you are dead.I must go, but my soul lies helplessBeside your bed.

I did not need that word to read, To know the Children's Seat;For there the grass was trodden down By many little feet.

Upon this day the Kinderbank Was full as it could be,With children sitting in a row, A pleasant sight to see.

Each little woman bent her head, Too busy far to speak;Each had a lock of yellow hair Slipped down across her cheek.

Each little woman pursed her lips Into a rosebud small,And never knew how fast time flew-- So busy were they all.

One made the knitting-needles click, With shining head bent low,And earnest eyes intent to see The winter stocking grow.

Another, toiling at a seam, The thread drew in and out;And once she sighed--so hard she tried To make the stitches stout!

But ever, as they worked away, And would not look around,They watched the little ones that played Before them on the ground.

The little ones they laughed and cooed, And talked their baby-talk;Their feet so bare were rosy-fair-- For only one could walk!

His flaxen hair in ringlets stood Upon his serious head;His eyes so blue were serious, too; And, drawing near, I said:

"Whose precious baby boy is this, So thoughtful and so sweet?"Then up and spoke a little maid, Of those upon the seat:

"This baby--he belongs to me. He goes just where I go;And I'm his Little Mother--yes, My mother told me so!

"She said that he was mine 'all day.' And so it must be true;I brushed his hair--I take good care, As she herself would do.

"And I'm quite sure that I can cure, And drive the pain away,With kisses, if my baby hurts His little hand at play!"

"And whose are all these babies here? "Why--we--oh, don't you know?"We all are Little Mothers--yes, Our mothers told us so!"

The Little Mothers all looked up, And each did nod her head:"Our mothers told us so!" "Ah, then 'Tis true, indeed," I said.

I left them as I found them, there Beneath the linden tree;And often since that day I've thought I'd like to go and see

If still the Little Mothers sit Upon the Children's Seat,And watch their babies as they play And tumble at their feet.