Show POEM By Joaquin God's pity for the breast that bears A little babe then banish it To stranger to alien To live or die as chance sees helpless hands reached anywhere As God gave them to reach and With only helplessness in Poor little hands pushed pushed And all night long for mother's restless hands that will not rest And gather strength to reach out strong To mother in the rosy they gather scorn for scorn And hate for hate the lorn night long Poor dying babe to reach about as a thing east God's pity for the thing of lust That bears a frail babe to bo thrust Forth from her arms to alien As shutting out the light of As shutting off God's very breath But thrice God's let us For her who bears no babe at But gaily leads up Fashion's Hall And grinning leads the dance of That steel braced breast of bone like some A whited sepulchre of A-grave yard at the gates of A mart where motherhood is A house of murder And for prophet's tongue or pen To not and accuse The childless but such men As know their wives but to me the brave child loving The full sexed Jew of either Who brings and noth ing reeks Of care or cost as Christians' do-Dulled souls who will not hear or see How Christ once raised his lowly head i as gently The while he took them little children come to |