One breast, like a golden fruit lay bare;
She held her small son feeding there.
She plucked him off, she lifted him high,
Like rose-red fruit on the blue sky.
She pressed her lips to the budded feet,
And murmured softly, "Oh, sweet, my sweet."
She whispered, "Gods, that my land may live,
I give the best that I have to give!"
Then, then, before the throng awoke,
Before one cry from their white lips broke,