John Masefield (1878–1967)

IN the dark womb where I began

My mother’s life made me a man.

Through all the months of human birth

Her beauty fed my common earth.

I cannot see, nor breathe, nor stir,

But through the death of some of her.

Down in the darkness of the grave

She cannot see the life she gave.

For all her love, she cannot tell

Whether I use it ill or well,

Nor knock at dusty doors to find

Her beauty dusty in the mind.

If the grave’s gates could be undone,

She would not know her little son,

I am so grown. If we should meet,

She would pass by me in the street,

Unless my soul’s face let her see

My sense of what she did for me.

What have I done to keep in mind

My debt to her and womankind?

What woman’s happier life repays

Her for those months of wretched days?

For all my mouthless body leech’d

Ere Birth’s releasing hell was reach’d?

What have I done, or tried, or said

In thanks to that dear woman dead?

Men triumph over women still,

Men trample women’s rights at will,

And man’s lust roves the world untamed.

*****

O grave, keep shut lest I be shamed!