The Virgin Martyr
Every wild she-bird has nest and mate in the warm April weather, But a captive woman, made for love — no mate, no nest has she.
In the spring of young desire, young men and maids are wed together, And the happy mothers flaunt their bliss for all the world to see:
Nature’s sacramental feast for these — an empty board for me.
I, a young maid once, an old maid now, deposed, despised, forgotten —
I, like them have thrilled with passion and have dreamed of nuptial rest, Of the trembling life within me of my children unbegotten, Of a breathing new-born body to my yearning bosom prest, Of the rapture of a little soft mouth drinking at my breast.
Time, that heals so many sorrows, keeps mine ever freshly aching; Though my face is growing furrowed and my brown hair turning white, Still I mourn my irremediable loss, asleep or waking —
Still I hear my son’s voice calling “mother” in the dead of night, And am haunted by my girl’s eyes that will never see the light.
O my children that I might have had! my children, lost for ever!
O the goodly years that might have been — now desolate and bare!
O malignant God or Fate, what have I done that I should never Take my birthright like the others, take the crown that women wear, And possess the common heritage to which all flesh is heir?