Classic Poem

Before me you bowed as before an altar,
And I reached down and drew you to my bosom;
Proud of your reverence, and reverence returning,
But craving most your love and not your awe.

My hands about your head curved themselves as holding
A treasure, fragile and of glad possession;
Dear were the bones of your skull beneath my fingers,
And I grew brave at thought of your defense.

Not as a man I felt you in my brooding,
But as a babe, a babe of my own body;
Precious your worth, but dearer your dependence;
Almost I wished to feed you at my breast.

And not to me, I knew, belonged your homage:
I but the vessel of your holy drinking;
The channel to you of that ancient wonder
Of love and womanhood, I but a woman.

Then never need your memory be shamefaced
That I have seen your flesh and soul at worship;
Do you think I did not kneel when you were kneeling?
Even lowlier bowed my head, and bowed my heart.