Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.

Motherhood

MARY, the Christ long slain, passed silently,

Following the children joyously astir

Under the cedrus and the olive-tree,

Pausing to let their laughter float to her.

Each voice an echo of a voice more dear,

She saw a little Christ in every face;

When lo, another woman, gliding near,

Yearned o’er the tender life that filled the place.

And Mary sought the woman’s hand, and spoke:

“I know thee not, yet know thy memory tossed

With all a thousand dreams their eyes evoke

Who bring to thee a child beloved and lost.

“I, too, have rocked my little one.

Oh, He was fair!

Yea, fairer than the fairest sun,

And like its rays through amber spun

His sun-bright hair.

Still I can see it shine and shine.”

“Even so,” the woman said, “was mine.”

“His ways were ever darling ways”—

And Mary smiled—

“So soft, so clinging! Glad relays

Of love were all His precious days.

My little child!

My infinite star! My music fled!”

“Even so was mine,” the woman said.

Then whispered Mary: “Tell me, thou,

Of thine.” And she:

“Oh, mine was rosy as a bough

Blooming with roses, sent, somehow,

To bloom for me!

His balmy fingers left a thrill

Within my breast that warms me still.”

Then gazed she down some wilder, darker hour,

And said—when Mary questioned, knowing not:

“Who art thou, mother of so sweet a flower?”—

“I am the mother of Iscariot.”