The Sleeping Mother

How still the vast depths of this City's heart!
At last the ever-moaning tide of life
Is quiet, and, sweet mother, wearied thou
With the babe's wailing and its piteous strife,
Thou too, worn in love's toil, art tranquil now.
I watch thee, and I think how fair thou art
In this deep-lidded sleep; the uncoiled hair
Piled round the high clear brow, one white arm bare,
On which lies warm the little golden head
Wearier even than thine. And now I see
How sunk thine eyes are, and that forehead fair,
How fretted with faint lines unmerited
So early; and reproach lays hold of me,
That I have led thee from thy pastures green
To these steep slopes where we are bowed with care.
Yet if thou should'st awake and read my thought,
I know thine eyes would fill with light serene,
And thou would'st say, "This burden have I sought,
This service is a perfect liberty;
This City of Love, whose pulse of love beats quick
With strenuous tasks, is it not better far

Than virgin pastures, where the air is thick
With golden languors and a dull content? "
Great joy hath woman when.that time is spent,
And on her life there rises that new star
Which leads her feet where mother-raptures are.