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Arthur Henry Adams - Lament.
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PEACE, your little child is dead:
Peace, I cannot weep with you;
I have no more tears to shed;
I have mourned my baby too —
I, that ne`er was wooed or wed.
Love has looked within your eyes,
Love has filled your hungry heart;
You have borne the babe, your prize;
You have blossomed, done your part,
Though the flower faded lies.
But to me was love denied —
God had said it might not be;
Still my hungry hopes abide;
All the motherhood in me
Aches — and starves, unsatisfied.
How my soul has yearned for thee,
Sweet, sweet unborn child of mine!
How thy life would tenderly
Round thy mother`s life entwine —
Hope of hopes that may not be.
How thy hands would pluck my breast!
I have felt them o`er and o`er,
And thy soft, sweet skin caressed,
Baby mine I never bore!
Did I dream so? — dreams are best.
You have nothing now to fear,
Mother; you have fondled him,
Held his pretty face so near,
Laid your lips to each soft limb —
He is dead, but he was dear.
You have something you may mourn,
Some sweet memory to kiss;
I am lonelier, more forlorn;
God has left me only this —
My sweet babe that was not born.
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