BEREAVED
Let me come in where you sit weeping; aye, Let me, who have not any child to die, Weep with you for the little one whose love I have known nothing of.
The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used To kiss. Such arms, such hands I never knew. May I not weep with you.
Fain would I be of service, say something Between the tears, that would be comforting; But ah! so sadder than yourselves am I, Who have no child to die.
HIS MOTHER
Dead! my wayward boy—my own— Not the Law's, but mine; the good God's free gift to me alone, Sanctified by motherhood.
"Bad," you say: well, who is not? "Brutal"—"With a heart of stone"— And "red-handed." Ah! the hot Blood upon your own!
I come not with downward eyes, To plead for him shamedly: God did not apologize When He gave the boy to me.
Simply, I make ready now For His verdict. You prepare— You have killed us both—and how Will you face us There!
E. W.