Stains of labor are on her hands, Lost is the young form’s airy grace; And standing there on the shining sands You read her fate in her weary face. Up with the dawn to toil all day For meagre fare and a place to sleep; Seldom a moment to dream or play, Little leisure to laugh or weep.
Beautiful Maud, you think, maybe, Lying back in your velvet chair, There is naught in common with her and thee,— You scarce could breathe in the self-same air. But the warm blood in her girlish heart Leaps quick as yours at her nature’s call, And ye, though moving so far apart, Must share one destiny after all.
Love shall come to you both one day, For still must be what aye hath been; And under satin or russet gray Hearts will open to let him in. Motherhood with its joy and woe Each must compass through burning pain,— You, fair Maud, with your brow of snow, Madge with her brown hands labor-stained.
Each shall sorrow and each shall weep, Though one is in hovel, one in hall; Over your gold the frost shall creep, As over her jet the snows will fall. Exquisite Maud, you lift your eyes At Madge out yonder under the sun; Yet know ye both by the countless ties Of a common womanhood ye are one!
A MOTHER’S QUESTION
What mother-angel tended thee last night, Sweet baby mine? Cradled upon what breast all soft and white Didst thou recline?
Who took thee, frail and tender as thou art, Within her arms? And shielded thee, close claspéd to her heart, From all alarms?
Surely that God who lured thee from the breast That hoped to be The softest pillow and the sweetest rest Thenceforth to thee,
Sent thee not forth into the dread unknown Without a guide, To grope in darkness, treading all alone The path untried.
Compassionate is He who called thee, child; And well I know He sent some Blessed One of aspect mild With thee to go