A BALLAD OF WOMAN
_(Gratefully Dedicated to Mrs. Pankhurst_)


She bore us in her dreaming womb,
And laughed into the face of Death;
She laughed, in her strange agony,--
To give her little baby breath.

Then, by some holy mystery,
She fed us from her sacred breast,
Soothed us with little birdlike words--
To rest--to rest--to rest--to rest;

Yea, softly fed us with her life--
Her bosom like the world in May:
Can it be true that men, thus fed,
Feed women--as I hear them say?

Long ere we grew to girl and boy,
She sewed the little things we wore,
And smiled unto herself for joy--
Mysterious Portress of the Door.

Shall she who bore the son of God,
And made the rose of Sappho's song,
She who saved France, and beat the drum
Of freedom, brook this vulgar wrong?