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11/26/2009 6:32:45 AM

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POEM

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Every wild she-bird has nest and mate in the warm April weather, 
But a captive woman, made for love -- no mate, no nest has she. 
In the spring of young desire, young men and maids are wed together, 
And the happy mothers flaunt their bliss for all the world to see: 
Nature's sacramental feast for these -- an empty board for me.

I, a young maid once, an old maid now, deposed, despised, forgotten -- 
I, like them have thrilled with passion and have dreamed of nuptial rest, 
Of the trembling life within me of my children unbegotten, 
Of a breathing new-born body to my yearning bosom prest, 
Of the rapture of a little soft mouth drinking at my breast.

Time, that heals so many sorrows, keeps mine ever freshly aching; 
Though my face is growing furrowed and my brown hair turning white, 
Still I mourn my irremediable loss, asleep or waking -- 
Still I hear my son's voice calling "mother" in the dead of night, 
And am haunted by my girl's eyes that will never see the light.

O my children that I might have had! my children, lost for ever! 
O the goodly years that might have been -- now desolate and bare! 
O malignant God or Fate, what have I done that I should never 
Take my birthright like the others, take the crown that women wear, 
And possess the common heritage to which all flesh is heir?

Ada Cambridge

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