You think I cannot understand. Ah, but I do... I have been wrung with anger and compassion for you. I wonder if youâ€™d loathe my pity, if you knew.
But you shall know. Iâ€™ve carried in my heart too long This secret burden. Has not silence wrought your wrongâ€” Brought you to dumb and wintry middle-age, with grey Unfruitful withering?â€”Ah, the pitiless things I say...
What do you ask your God for, at the end of day, Kneeling beside your bed with bowed and hopeless head? What mercy can He give you?â€”Dreams of the unborn Children that haunt your soul like loving words unsaidâ€” Dreams, as a song half-heard through sleep in early morn?
I see you in the chapel, where you bend before The enhaloed calm of everlasting Motherhood That wounds your life; I see you humbled to adore The painted miracle youâ€™ve never understood.
Tender, and bitter-sweet, and shy, Iâ€™ve watched you holding Anotherâ€™s child. O childless woman, was it then That, with an instantâ€™s cry, your heart, made young again, Was crucified for everâ€”those poor arms enfolding The life, the consummation that had been denied you? I too have longed for children. Ah, but you must not weep. Something I have to whisper as I kneel beside you... And you must pray for me before you fall asleep.