Never again to feel that little kiss--
That hungry kiss--that heavy little head,
Pressing and groping, eager to be fed.
My breast is burning with the weight of this--
My arms are empty and my heart is dead.
Through the long nights never to hear the cry--
The little cry that called me from my sleep;
Always from now a vigil black to keep;
Always awake and listening to lie,
While over my seared heart the ashes heap.
Ah, God!--there is no God. There is no rest,
No rest. No pity. No release from pain.
How could God give those little hands again?
How could God cool the throbbing of my breast?
Oh--little hands ... that in the dust have lain!
_The Masses_ _Lydia Gibson_