of my dust,
dust with my dust,
child who died as you entered the world,
with my death!
knowing Breath, though you tried so hard,
a heart that beat when you lived with me,
stopped when you left me for Life.
is well, my child. For you never traveled
long, long way that begins with school days,
little fingers blur under the tears
fall on the crooked letters.
the earliest wound, when a little mate
you alone for another;
sickness, and the face of Fear by the bed;
death of a father and mother;
shame for them, or poverty;
maiden sorrow of school days ended;
eyeless Nature that makes you drink
the cup of Love, though you know it's poisoned;
whom would your flower-face have been lifted?
weakling? Cry of what blood to yours?—
or foul, for it makes no matter,
blood that calls to our blood.
then your children—oh, what might they be?
what your sorrow? Child! Child!
is better than Life!