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
