dawn of mourning
Up the stairs i ran to the wan mother and
whimpering babe, to the sanctuary on whose altar a life at my bidding had offered itself to win
a life, and won. What is this tiny formless thing,
this newborn wail from an unknown world, all
head and voice? i handle it curiously, and watch
perplexed its winking, breathing, and sneezing.
i did not love it then—it seemed a ludicrous
thing to love—but her i loved, my girl-mother,
she whom now i saw unfolding like the glory of
the morning—the transfigured woman.