Motherhood

The night throbs on: but let me pray, dear Lord!Crush off his name a moment from my mouth.To thee my eyes would turn, but they go back,Back to my arm beside me where he lay—So little, Lord, so little and so warm!

I cannot think that thou hadst need of him!He is so little, Lord, he cannot sing,He cannot praise thee; all his lips had learnedWas to hold fast my kisses in the night.

Give him to me—he is not happy there!He had not felt his life: his lovely eyesJust knew me for his mother, and he died.

Hast thou an angel there to mother him?I say he loves me best—if he forgets,If thou allow it that my child forgetsAnd runs not out to meet me when I come—

What are my curses to thee? Thou hast heardThe curse of Abel's mother, and since thenWe have not ceased to threaten at thy throne,To threat and pray thee that thou hold them stillIn memory of us.

In memory of us. See thou tend him well,Thou God of all the mothers! If he lackOne of his kisses—Ah, my heart, my heart,Do angels kiss in heaven? Give him back!

Forgive me, Lord, but I am sick with grief,And tired of tears and cold to comforting.Thou art wise I know, and tender, aye, and good.Thou hast my child and he is safe in thee,And I believe—

And I believe—Ah, God, my child shall goOrphaned among the angels! All alone,So little and alone! He knows not thee,He only knows his mother—give him back!