THE VIRGIN MARTYR
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.
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.
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—
Though my face is growing furrowed and my brown hair turning white,
Still I mourn my irremediable loss, asleep or waking—
68
