Rudyard Kipling (1865–1936). Verse: 1885–1918. 1922.
The Nursing Sister
O
And we must bow to her behests;
Our sister toileth overmuch,
Our little maid that hath no breasts.
A flower withheld from sun or bee,
An alien in the courts of Love,
And—teacher unto such as we!
We laugh, but sobs are mixed with laughter;
Our sister hath no time to smile,
She knows not what must follow after.
From beds of spice thy locks shake free;
Breathe on her heart that she may know,
Breathe on her eyes that she may see.
And maze her with most tender scorn,
Who stands beside the gates of Birth,
Herself a child—a child unborn!
And we must bow to her behests;
Our sister toileth overmuch,
Our little maid that hath no breasts.