For There is No Help in Them
She lies on that white breast she loves, and well
Studies that mother-face, which is so wise:
Whose rose and primrose heaven unchangeable
Coys on her smile, spring-sunlight-sweet. She lies
Awake, alone, wrapt all in wool, and cold
And burning; light glares down, a roseless—Hark!
Who comes? she fights to gaze, and half has rolled
Her hurt head round, when there is nought but dark.
She lies in state; the old green looking-glass
Reflects the baby-carriage, where half-hid
A white box holds the joy that is as grass;
A dull plant droops its dusk. One lifts the lid,
Meets the small pearl face, the dark peering eyes,
So disenchanted and so sadly wise.
Studies that mother-face, which is so wise:
Whose rose and primrose heaven unchangeable
Coys on her smile, spring-sunlight-sweet. She lies
Awake, alone, wrapt all in wool, and cold
And burning; light glares down, a roseless—Hark!
Who comes? she fights to gaze, and half has rolled
Her hurt head round, when there is nought but dark.
She lies in state; the old green looking-glass
Reflects the baby-carriage, where half-hid
A white box holds the joy that is as grass;
A dull plant droops its dusk. One lifts the lid,
Meets the small pearl face, the dark peering eyes,
So disenchanted and so sadly wise.
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