Page:Patriotic pieces from the Great War, Jones, 1918.djvu/107

Rh Not the fair hands that painters give you, white

And slim. You never had such hands: and night

And day you labored, night and day, from child

To woman. You were never soft and mild,

But strong-limbed, patient, brown-skinned from the sun,

Deep-bosomed, brave-eyed, holy, holy One!

I know you now! I seek you, Mary! Spread

Your compassionate skirts; I bring to you my dead.

This was my man. I bore him. I did not know

Then how he crowned me, but I felt it so.

He was my all the world. I loved him best

When he was helpless, clamoring at my breast.

Mothers are made like that. You'll understand

Who held your Jesus helpless in your hand,

And loved his impotence. But as he grew

I watched him, always jealously; I knew

Each line of his young body, every tone

Of speech; his pains, his triumphs were my own.

I saw the down come on his cheeks, with dread,

And soon I had to reach to hold his head

And stroke his mop of hair. I watched his eyes