Nay, do not bid me cease. I must confess.
It is not discontentment with my lot.
My heart, it suffocates. This feeling here,
It stifles me. I think that one might die,
Forbidden speech. Ah, friend, had you a babe,
A little puny thing that needed air,
And nursing too; and now and then a kiss,
A mother’s kiss, to quiet it; and arms,
Warm arms to wrap and rock it so to sleep;
Would you deny it these? And yet there lives