XV.

FAREWELL, you children that I might have borne. Now must I put you from me year by year, Now year by year the root of life be torn Out of this womb to which you were so dear, Now year by year the milky springs be dried Within the sealed-up fountains of my breast, Now year by year be to my arms denied The burden they would break with and be blessed. Sometimes I felt your lips and hands so close I almost could have plucked you from the dark, But now your very dream more distant grows As my still aching body grows more stark. I shall not see you laugh or hear you weep, Kiss you awake, or cover up your sleep.