Nay, do not bid me cease. I must confess.
It is not discontentment with my lot.
My heart, it suffocates. This feeling here,
It stifles me. I think that one might die,
Forbidden speech. Ah, friend, had you a babe,
A little puny thing that needed air,
And nursing too; and now and then a kiss,
A mother’s kiss, to quiet it; and arms,
Warm arms to wrap and rock it so to sleep;
Would you deny it these? And yet there lives
A far more tender babe that God calls love;
And when He sends it, why, we mortals here,—
I would not say we grudge the kiss, the clasp,—
We grudge the little heavenling even air.
The tears will come. It makes me weep to think
Of this poor gentle babe, this heir of heaven,
So wronged because men live ashamed of it.
Not strange is it that earth knows little love
While all so little dare of love to speak.
For once (I ask no more) you must permit
That I should nurse the stranger, give it air,
Ay, ay, and food, if need be; let it grow.
God’s child alone, I have no fear of it.