Elaine Goodale Eastman (1863–1953)

UPON her snowy couch she drooping lies,

A languor on her limbs that seems a grace,

A sacred pallor on her lily face,

A blessed light reflected in her eyes,

She knows who drew her strength and would not rise;

Forgetting self, she rests a little space,

Sees her warm life-blood mantle in his face,

And strains her ear to catch his wailing cries.

O wondrous mother-love! how strange and deep,

With what vibrating thrill of tenderness;

To give the glow, and lie a pallid flower,

To give the light, and smile, and wait to weep!

Sweet is thine infant’s warm unconsciousness,

But sweeter thy mysterious sacred power!