I held him first when he was six weeks old And he has lived twelve years within my heart, I thought it would be simple then to mold Him with the skill that is a mother's art. Sometimes our bond is torn with hurt surprise, Two beings, worlds apart, not reconciled In thought or flesh. I plumb this stranger's eyes And try to fathom my adopted child. The travail of most women ends at birth But mine continues, deluged with a stream Of alien blood. Unwilling to unearth The fact of records that might mar my dream I labor in the dark -- When I have done I shall have borne triumphantly a son. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...TO HIS FORSAKEN MISTRESS by ROBERT AYTON ON SOMETHING THAT WALKS SOMEWHERE by BEN JONSON THRENODY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH PEARLS OF THE FAITH: 79. AL-TAWWAB by EDWIN ARNOLD LINES WRITTEN AT THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |