She is most often joyous, with a mirth
That rings true-tempered holy womanhood,
She cannot fear the agonies of birth,
Nor sit in pallid lethargy and brood
Upon the coming seasons of her pain:
By her the mystery is understood
Of harvest, and fulfilment in the grain.
Yea, she is wont to labor in the field,
Delights to heap, at sunset, on the wain
Festoons and coronals of the golden yield.
A triumph is the labor of her soul,
Sublime along eternity revealed.
Lo, everlastingly in her control,
Under the even measure of her breath,
Like crested waves the onward centuries roll.
Nor to far heaven her spirit wandereth,
Nor lifteth she her voice in barren prayer,
Nor trembleth at appearances of death.
She, godlike in her womanhood, will fare
Calm-visaged and heroic to the end.
The homestead is her most especial care;
She loves the sacred hearth: she will defend
Her gods from desecration of the vile.
Fierce, like a wounded tigress, she can rend
Whatever may have entered to defile.
I see her in the evening by the fire,
And in her eyes, illumined from the pile
Of blazing logs, a motherly desire
Glows like the moulded passion of a rose;
Beautiful is her presence in the bower: