Your hands were beating at my breast,
And gave my womanhood no rest,
Your little soul called each to each,
And laid bright heaven in our reach.
My body fed your body, son,
But birth's a swift thing, swiftly done,
Compared to one-and-twenty years
Of feeding you with spirit's tears.
I could not make your mind and soul,
But my glad hands have kept you whole,
And tears have kept God's pastures green,
And washed the temple sweet and clean.
Think you that I have lived in vain
These years of wonder, joy, and pain?
The years when Jesus meek and mild
Was my beloved little child!
And when the first shy touch of things
Waked in my heart a thousand springs,
And bade me open childhood's gate
And give my woman's hand to fate!
The moment when your groping hands
Bound me to life with ruthless bands,
When all my living became a prayer,
And all my days built up a stair
For your young feet that trod behind,
That you an aspiring way should find!
Think you that life can give you pain,
Which does not stab in me again?
Think you that life can give you pleasure
Which is not my undying treasure?

Think you that life can give you shame
Which does not make my pride go lame?
And you can do no evil thing

Which sears not me with poisoned sting.
Because of all that I have done,
Remember me in life, O son!

For

Keep that proud body fine and fair,
My love is monumented there.
For my love make no woman weep,
my love hold no woman cheap,
And see you give no woman scorn
For that dark night when you were born.
Beloved, all my years belong

To you, go thread them for a song.

Irene Rutherford McLeod

ONE MOTHER

MARY!

I'm quite alone in all the world, Into such bright sharp pain of anguish hurled

I cannot pray wise comfortable things; Death's plunged me deep in hell, and given me wings

For terrible strange vastnesses; no hand
In all this empty spirit-driven space; I stand
Alone, and whimpering in my soul. I plod
Among wild stars, and hide my face from
God.

God frightens me. He's strange. I know
Him not.

And all my usual prayers I have forgot:
But you-you had a son -I remember now!
You are not Mary of the virgin brow!
You agonized for Jesus! You went down
Into the ugly depths for him. Your crown
Is my crown! I've seen you in the street,
Begging your way for broken bread and

meat:

I've seen you in trams, in shops, among old faces,

Young eyes, brave lips, broad backs, in all the places

Where women work, and weep, in pain, in

pride.

Your hands were gnarled that held him when he died!

Not the fair hands that painters give you, white

And slim. You never had such hands: night And day you laboured, 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, clamouring 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 When women crossed his ways, and I was wise

For him who had no wisdom. He was young, And loathed my care, and lashed me with youth's tongue.

Splendidly merciless, casual of age, his scorn Was sweet to me of whom his strength was born.

Besides, when he was more than six foot tall

He kept the smile he had when he was

And still no woman had him. I was glad Of that - and then O God! The world ran

mad!

Almost before I knew, this noise was war; Death and not women took the son I bore .

You'll know him when you see him: first of all

Because he'll smile that way when he was small;

And then his eyes! They never changed from blue

To duller grey, as other children's do,
But like his childish dreams he kept his

eyes

Vivid, and deeply clear, and vision wise. Seek for him, Mary! Bright among the

ghosts

Of other women's sons he 'll star those hosts Of shining boys! (He always topped his class

At school!) Lean forward, Mary, as they

pass,

And touch him! When you see his eyes you'll weep

And think him your own Jesus! Let him sleep

In your deep bosom, Mary, then you'll

see

His lashes, how they curl, so childishly