MOTHERHOOD
Isabel Kimball Whiting
I see them come crowding, crowding,
Children of want and pain,
Dark sorrow their eyes enshrouding
Where joy’s touch should have lain.
They stand in silence beseeching,
Gaunt faces lifted up
And wan little hands outreaching
For Love’s forbidden cup.
Their hearts are restless with yearning.
The hearts of my own are stilled,
Their lips are parched and burning
The cups of my own are filled!
I cry in love unsatisfied
For these without the fold,
My mother’s arms are open wide
These weary ones to hold.
What though my arms are open wide,
Only mine own lie near.
Without still stand those long denied,
Compassed in want and fear.
Bowed with the crown of Motherhood,
I seek that Shepherd of old;
“How can mine own receive the good
With some left out of the fold?”