Hope
Hope, bending o'er me one time, snowed the flakes
Of her white touches on my folded sight,
And whispered, half rebukingly, “What makes
My little girl so sorrowful to-night?”
O scarce did I unclasp my lids, or lift
Their tear-glued fringes, as with blind embrace
I caught within my arms the mother-gift,
And with wild kisses dappled all her face.
That was a baby dream of long ago:
My fate is fanged with frost, and tongued with flame:
My woman-soul, chased naked through the snow,
Stumbles and staggers on without an aim.
And yet, here in my agony, sometimes
A faint voice reaches down from some far height,
And whispers through a glamouring of rhymes,—
“What makes my little girl so sad to-night?”
Of her white touches on my folded sight,
And whispered, half rebukingly, “What makes
My little girl so sorrowful to-night?”
O scarce did I unclasp my lids, or lift
Their tear-glued fringes, as with blind embrace
I caught within my arms the mother-gift,
And with wild kisses dappled all her face.
That was a baby dream of long ago:
My fate is fanged with frost, and tongued with flame:
My woman-soul, chased naked through the snow,
Stumbles and staggers on without an aim.
And yet, here in my agony, sometimes
A faint voice reaches down from some far height,
And whispers through a glamouring of rhymes,—
“What makes my little girl so sad to-night?”
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