Your hands were beating at my breast, Think you that life can give you shame Which sears not me with poisoned sting. For Keep that proud body fine and fair, To you, go thread them for a song. Irene Rutherford McLeod ONE MOTHER MARY! I'm quite alone in all the world, Into such bright sharp pain of anguish hurled I cannot pray wise comfortable things; Death's plunged me deep in hell, and given me wings For terrible strange vastnesses; no hand God frightens me. He's strange. I know And all my usual prayers I have forgot: meat: I've seen you in trams, in shops, among old faces, Young eyes, brave lips, broad backs, in all the places Where women work, and weep, in pain, in pride. Your hands were gnarled that held him when he died! Not the fair hands that painters give you, white And slim. You never had such hands: night And day you laboured, 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, clamouring at my breast. Mothers are made like that. You'll understand Who held your Jesus helpless in your hand 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 When women crossed his ways, and I was wise For him who had no wisdom. He was young, And loathed my care, and lashed me with youth's tongue. Splendidly merciless, casual of age, his scorn Was sweet to me of whom his strength was born. Besides, when he was more than six foot tall He kept the smile he had when he was And still no woman had him. I was glad Of that - and then O God! The world ran mad! Almost before I knew, this noise was war; Death and not women took the son I bore . You'll know him when you see him: first of all Because he'll smile that way when he was small; And then his eyes! They never changed from blue To duller grey, as other children's do, eyes Vivid, and deeply clear, and vision wise. Seek for him, Mary! Bright among the ghosts Of other women's sons he 'll star those hosts Of shining boys! (He always topped his class At school!) Lean forward, Mary, as they pass, And touch him! When you see his eyes you'll weep And think him your own Jesus! Let him sleep In your deep bosom, Mary, then you'll see His lashes, how they curl, so childishly |