Wives, say you? Wives! Blessed indeed are they

Who hold of love the everlasting keys,

Keeping their husbands’ hearts! Alas the day!

You don’t keep these!

And mothers? Pitying Heaven! Mark the cry

From cradle death-beds! Mothers on their knees!

Why, half the children born—as children die!

You don’t keep these!

And still the wailing babies come and go,

And homes are waste, and husbands’ hearts fly far,