by Zora Bernice May Cross
Beloved, I who shall be mother soon
Need mothering myself this tired hour,
As heavily the sweet and precious power
Weighs on my heart till I am near to swoon.
Console me, soothe me, Dearest, with the boon
Of your firm strength, and little comforts shower
Soft on the drifting doubtings that devour
Patience and courage when the death-winds croon.
You are your mother, Dear, as I am mine.
And, as we slumber to our souls’ caress,
Those two who panged for us and weeping smiled,
Draw near and bind us in a peace divine.
O mother me; all else is comfortless
As painted lips above a dying child.
Last updated September 18, 2015