"And yet again, that purple-winged hen-starling,
Hungry—I'll vouch it!
Flies with a fat grub to her nested darling,
Nor dreams to pouch it!
"She-mercy everywhere, she-pitying
In helpless season!
You Boston girls seem up to everything:
Tell me the reason."
"Why, certainly!" she smiled, "don't poets know
Better than others?
God can't be always everywhere: and, so,
Invented Mothers."
