For, folded in her form each human mite
Has its first home, its sustenance and light;
Hers the live warmth that fans its spirit flame,
Her generous sap supplies its fleshly frame,
And e’en the juice,—the fullborn infant’s food,
Is yet a blanched form of woman’s living blood.
XLII.
Strange wisdom by her unkenned craft is taught
While yet the embryo in her womb is wrought;
For, long ere entering on our tumult rife,