He spoke of freedom and its pains,
Of passion and its sorrow,
Of sacrifice, and nobler gains
Wrung from a dark to-morrow.
He did not shirk the names of death,
Worn heart, a night of tears—
If here the woman caught her breath,
She dared to face her fears.
Perhaps he touched on pretty needs,
Named frill, flounce, furbelow,
Perhaps referred to sable weeds,
And dignity in woe.
Glowed like two rose-leaves both ear-lobes,
White grew her lips and set,
The sly snake picturing small white robes,
A roseate bassinet.
He smiled; then squarely told the curse,
Birth-pang, a lord and master;
She hung her head—“It might be worse,
It seems no huge disaster.”
She mused—“A sin’s a sin at most;
Life’s joy outweighs my sentence;
What of my man, who now can boast
A virtue so portentous?
Best for him too! Sweat, workman’s groan
And death which makes us even;
I want a sinner of my own,
Who finds my breast his heaven.”
Our General Mother, which is true
This tale, or that old story,
Tradition’s fable convenue
Fashioned for Jahveh’s glory?