To an Unborn Pauper Child
Breathe not, hid Heart: cease silently,And though thy birth-hour beckons thee,Sleep the long sleep:The Doomsters heapTravails and teens around us here,And Time-wraiths turn our songsingings to fear.
Hark, how the peoples surge and sigh,And laughters fail, and greetings die:Hopes dwindle; yea,Faiths waste away,Affections and enthusiasms numb;Thou canst not mend these things if thou dost come.
Had I the ear of wombèd soulsEre their terrestrial chart unrolls,And thou wert freeTo cease, or be,Then would I tell thee all I know,And put it to thee: Wilt thou take Life so?
Vain vow! No hint of mine may henceTo theeward fly: to thy locked senseExplain none canLife’s pending plan:Thou wilt thy ignorant entry makeThough skies spout fire and blood and nations quake.
Fain would I, dear, find some shut plotOf earth’s wide wold for thee, where notOne tear, one qualm,Should break the calm.But I am weak as thou and bare;No man can change the common lot to rare.
Must come and bide. And such are we—Unreasoning, sanguine, visionary—That I can hopeHealth, love, friends, scopeIn full for thee; can dream thou’lt findJoys seldom yet attained by humankind!
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