We, the mothers, who might be glad,
But are broken at heart and bitter and sad;
O, Future Day, will you write in flame,
The reason for sin and the reason for shame?
That in all the city there seemed no room
No sweet clean place for my heart to bloom!
Oh, will you terribly tell the truth;
That the world which offers no worthy place,
For the light that shines in my baby’s face,
Offered no shelter for love and youth,