Margaret Widdemer

I HAVE shut my little sister in from life and light

(For a rose, for a ribbon, for a wreath across my hair),

I have made her restless feet still until the night,

Locked from sweets of summer and fine wild spring air;

I who ranged the meadowlands, free from sun to sun

Free to sing and pull the buds and watch the far wings fly,

I have bound my sister till her playing-time was done—

Oh, my little sister, was it I? Was it I?

I have robbed my sister of her day of maidenhood

(For a robe, for a feather, for a trinket’s restless spark),

Shut from Love till dusk shall fall, how shall she know good,

How shall she go scatheless through the sin-lit dark?

I who could be innocent, I who could be gay,

I who could have love and mirth before the light went by.

I have put my sister in her mating-time away—

Sister, my young sister, was it I? Was it I?

I have robbed my sister of the lips against her breast,

(For a coin, for the weaving of my children’s lace and lawn),

Feet that pace beside the loom, hands that cannot rest—

How can she know motherhood, whose strength is gone?

I who took no heed of her, starved and labour-worn.

I against whose placid heart my sleepy gold-heads lie,

Round my path they cry to me, little souls unborn—

God of Life! Creator! It was I! It was I!