Themabewertung:
  • 0 Bewertung(en) - 0 im Durchschnitt
  • 1
  • 2
  • 3
  • 4
  • 5
From Mother and Daughter 21 - 27
#1
From Mother and Daughter


XXI

Hardly in any common tender wise,
With petting talk, light lips on her dear cheek,
The love I mean my child will bear to speak,
Loth of its own less image for disguise;
But liefer will it floutingly devise,
Using a favourite jester’s mimic pique,
Prompt, idle, by‐names with their sense to seek,
And takes for language laughing ironies.
But she, as when some foreign tongue is heard,
Familiar on our lips and closely known,
We feel the every purport of each word
When ignorant ears reach empty sound alone,
So knows the core within each merry gird,
So gives back such a meaning in her own.


XXII

The brook leaps riotous with its life just found,
That freshets from the mountain rains have fed,
Beats at the boulders in its hindered bed,
And fills the valley with its triumphing sound.
The strong unthirsty tarn sunk in deep ground
Has never a sigh wherewith its wealth is said,
Has no more ripples than the May‐flies tread:
Silence of waters is where they abound.
And love, whatever love, sure, makes small boast:
’Tis the new lovers tell, in wonder yet.
Oh happy need! Enriched stream’s jubilant gush!
But who being spouses well have learned love’s most,
Being child and mother learned not nor forget,
These in their joyfulness feel the tarn’s strong hush.


XXIII

Birds sing “I love you, love” the whole day through,
And not another song can they sing right;
But, singing done with, loving’s done with quite,
The autumn sunders every twittering two.
And I’d not have love make too much ado
With sweet parades of fondness and delight,
Lest iterant wont should make caresses trite,
Love‐names mere cuckoo ousters of the true.
Oh heart can hear heart’s sense in senseless nought,
And heart that’s sure of heart has little speech.
What shall it tell? The other knows its thought.
What shall one doubt or question or beseech
Who is assured and knows and, unbesought,
Possesses the dear trust that each gives each.


XXIV

“You scarcely are a mother, at that rate.
Only one child!” The blithe soul pitied loud.
And doubtless she, amid her household crowd,
When one brings care in another’s fortunate;
When one fares forth another’s at her gate.
Yea, were her first‐born folded in his shroud,
Not with a whole despair would she be bowed,
She has more sons to make her heart elate.
Many to love her singly, mother theirs,
To give her the dear love of being their need,
To storm her lap by turns and claim their kiss,
To kneel around her at their bed‐time prayers;
Many to grow her comrades! Some have this.
Yet I, I do not envy them indeed.

RAMSGATE, 1886.


XXV

You think that you love each as much as one,
Mothers with many nestlings ’neath your wings.
Nay, but you know not. Love’s most priceless things
Have unity that cannot be undone.
You give the rays, I the englobed full sun;
I give the river, you the separate springs:
My motherhood’s all my child’s with all it brings—
None takes the strong entireness from her: none.
You know not. You love yours with various stress;
This with a graver trust, this with more pride;
This maybe with more needed tenderness:
I by each uttermost passion of my soul
Am turned to mine; she is one, she has the whole:
How should you know who appraise love and divide?


XXVI

Of my one pearl so much more joy I gain
As he that to his sole desire is sworn,
Indifferent what women more were born,
And if she loved him not all love were vain,
Gains more, because of her—yea, through all pain,
All love and sorrows, were they two forlorn—
Than whoso happiest in the lands of morn
Mingles his heart amid a wifely train.
Oh! Child and mother, darling! Mother and child!
And who but we? We, darling, paired alone?
Thou hast all thy mother; thou art all my own.
That passion of maternity which sweeps
Tideless ’neath where the heaven of thee hath smiled
Has but one channel, therefore infinite deeps.


XXVII

Since first my little one lay on my breast
I never needed such a second good,
Nor felt a void left in my motherhood
She filled not always to the utterest.
The summer linnet, by glad yearnings pressed,
Builds room enough to house a callow brood:
I prayed not for another child—nor could;
My solitary bird had my heart’s nest.
But she is cause that any baby thing
If it but smile, is one of mine in truth,
And every child becomes my natural joy:
And, if my heart gives all youth fostering,
Her sister, brother, seems the girl or boy:
My darling makes me mother to their youth.
Zitieren


Gehe zu:


Benutzer, die gerade dieses Thema anschauen: 1 Gast/Gäste