Classic Poem

Mary, mother of Christ's body,
I have no songs to sing to thee;
The long, long years for thy grief's rack:
Mine eyes turn forward and not back.

The long, long past from thee to me
Is full of mothers' misery,
And griefs of girls and Stranger Sons—
The long, long hope before us runs.

The incense they have burned to thee,
O puzzling strange it is to me:
Slaughter of sons in thy son's name,
And motherhood turned to maiden's shame.

Mary, mother of misery,
Here I give thanks—girl that I be—
No son of mine shall drain the cup
That Jesu's hand hath filléd up.

(Here I give thanks—girl that I be—
O the young torn heart of me!
Branch at the window telleth of Spring:
My body hath no burgeoning.)

O will-less, mute Maternity—
(Mary, mother of slavery).
No link I be in the long, long chain
Of human sighs and human pain.