O children's roseleaf skin, O balmy breath! 1075
Away, away! Strength faileth me to gaze
On you, but I am overcome of evil.
[Exeunt Children.
Now, now, I learn what horrors I intend:
But passion overmastereth sober thought:
And this is cause of direst ills to men. 1080
Chorus.
I
Full oft ere this my soul hath scaled
Lone heights of thought, empyrean[errata 1] steeps,
Or plunged far down the darkling deeps,
Where woman's feebler heart hath failed.
Yet wherefore failed? Should woman find
No inspiration thrill her breast,
Nor welcome ever that sweet guest
Of Song, that uttereth Wisdom's mind?
Alas! not all! Few, few are they,—
Perchance amid a thousand one
Thou shouldest find,—for whom the sun
Of poesy makes an inner day.
II
Now this I say—calm bliss, that ne'er 1090
Knew love's wild fever of the blood,
The pains, the joys, of motherhood,
Passeth all parents' joy-blent care.
The childless, they that never prove
If sunshine comes, or cloud, to men
With babes, far lie beyond their ken
The toils, the griefs, of parent-love.
