Of our sad mother whom her sons make weep—
Breaking with cries of hate her quiet sleep,
Crowding in sunless ways their brothers faint.
Nor dumb thy poet-voice to speak her woe—
She that hath shivered when mankind stood mute
Or flung harsh words of evilest repute,
Veiling her face her Maker’s cross below.
With filial love thy heart ’gainst hers is laid
Who rears the hills, in keeping holds the dead.